


A Just Woman And An Honourable Man

by LilMil



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark!Dany, F/M, Fix-It, Incest is Lit, POV Multiple, Political!Jon, S8 AU, Slow Burn, canon divergent after 8x01, jonsa, the things Jon does for love, we need to claim this tag name because Davos doesn't know what he's talking about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilMil/pseuds/LilMil
Summary: Jon Snow, former King in the North, brings home a new queen, much to the displeasure of the Northern Lords and especially his sister Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. Not after too long the first cracks arise and Jon realizes that if he wants his small pack to survive, he needs to make the hard choices. And so, he will.This is now officially a Jonsa fix-it fic for the mess that is season 8. Canon divergent after 8x01.------------“You are a Stark, you’ve always been a Stark,” she whispers and his brown eyes drop to her lips so that he can understand her better. Her hands awkwardly pad the fur at the top of his cloak, trying to tame the little hairs as much as her nerves before she continues, “Lyanna Stark is your mother, and you were raised by Ned Stark alongside his sons, as his son.”Her hands grab his cheeks to make sure he listens carefully as she says the next words, “This isn’t how it works. You’re part of the pack and the pack’s for life."





	1. Jaime's Trial

“When may we expect your men, brother?” Tyrion asks from his place beneath the window. His voice is strained and his head rests vary upon his shoulders. For some reason, having his brother rally to their cause doesn’t seem as pleasing to Tyrion as Sansa would have expected.

Jaime stands at the centre of what must be an intimidating gathering for a Lannister; surrounded by North Men, the people whose brother he threw out of a window and the Dragon Queen who wants nothing more but his sister dead. Despite all this, he stands tall and proud – a Lannister to his core.

“There are no men,” Jaime says, “there’s only me. Cersei was lying and the moment I found out about it, I did what I had promised to do: I rode north.” Fire crackles in the fireplace but it does nothing to ease the appalling tension in the room.

A heavy silence cloaks the room. Tyrion’s eyes meet hers and as Sansa recalls their conversation on the battlements, she tries her best to keep the smugness from her face.

They really believed that Cersei would stay true to her word, she thinks. Sansa asked Bran to look after Tyrion, fearing that Tyrion is tricking them but it seems her former husband has truly lost his game.

Sansa can’t help but feel relieve; the thought of letting Lannister forces through the gates of Winterfell makes her skin crawl and throw up her breakfast that already hasn’t been so pleasant the first time around. Also, if any more troops without food reserves were to join their cause, there would soon be no cause to join anymore.

Jon, she thinks then, poor sweet Jon must feel terrible upon this news.

The instinct overcomes Sansa to put her hand on Jon’s to ease his burden. Knowing Jon, he probably blames himself for being tricked by Cersei when he shouldn’t be; not when Cersei’s own brothers fell into her sweet lie.

Before she moves her fingers, she remembers the way Daenerys Targaryen looked at him during their first gathering; the possessiveness in her eyes, the territorialisation in her bearing.

It makes her want to reach for him all the more but to what goal? If she antagonizes the low temper of the Dragon Queen any more, she’ll pull Jon from his family even further than she already has.

She keeps her gloved hands tightly pressed together in her lap. Their new sitting order, demanded by hers truly, wouldn’t allow Sansa to touch Jon anyways, not without reaching over the white-haired woman who is now seated between them.

But when she looks at Jon, he stares at his Queen, waiting for her reaction as if her opinion is the only thing that matters to him, anymore. There’s not a tinge of anger, or disappointment or desperation on his features. Weird for the man, who can’t shut up about allies and armies and dragons.

But, maybe … maybe he never cared about Cersei’s men. But why go on a dangerous wight hunt all way north and then return all the way back south to get support he doesn’t really care about?

Maybe –

The first to speak up is surprisingly enough their new queen, “That’s disappointing. However, I’m sure that is very pleasing to hear for Lady Sansa, isn’t it? According to her, we’ll all die of starvation before the moon’s turn anyways.”

Daenerys’ smile at Sansa is sweet as honey and false as water.

That is a surprisingly accurate summarization of my very thoughts, Sansa thinks, for the first time vaguely impressed by the Targaryen Queen. Maybe she isn’t as daft as she lets on.

Jaime Lannister’s face scrunches up as if that is the most confusing thing he ever heard. “Forgive me, my lady, I’m confused,” Jaime says, “there’s a food shortage?”

“Of course, Ser Jaime, there’s a long winter ahead and many mouths to feed. I’m sure you noticed the many tents on the fields around Winterfell,” Sansa offers. It is all a bit obvious, isn’t it?

Sansa turns to a sharp inhale of breath to her left before she hears Daenerys Targaryen open her mouth once more to say, “I’m not your lady, I’m your queen.” If words could cut Jaime Lannister would now be a cold cut.

Whatever they want.

It takes Sansa all she has to not snort at the other woman. She turns to look at Jon to see his reaction but all he does is stare ahead. You want to worry about who holds what title, I am telling you it doesn’t matter, isn’t that what Jon said when he came to her solar the other night? She wants to shout it at his face and she wants to shout it across the room for everyone to hear, too.

Is this the man Jon-in-love is now? Sansa wonders. Measuring everyone with his high moral standards, everyone but his beloved Queen? There is a pain in her chest she can’t rationally explain without looking too deep into the dark, twisted pits of her heart.

Jaime Lannister squeezes his eyes slightly while the right corner of his mouth peaks up.

He throws a glance at his brother before his focus returns to the white-haired woman and says with a stern voice, “No, you’re not. All these fine-looking Northerners may have fallen on their knees to you but I never have and never will. You are no queen of mine. I saw what you did on the Gold Road. It is one thing that you’ve brought hordes of Dothraki onto our shores, a people known for plundering, raping and killing. It is quite another to fly into battle on top of a dragon, burning thousands of wagons of food at the brink of a long winter; food that was meant to feed the half a million people – your people – of King’s Landing – your new capital – for many years.”

“Or roasting thousands of your new people on the field as if they were pigs,” Jaime continues, “and the poor slobs that survived your massacre – what did you offer them again? I heard it was something along the lines of ‘bend the knee or die’, wasn’t it? And you can say about Randyll Tarly what you like – but executing a father and a son by fire – you know who that reminds me of? Oh, I forgot, you don’t know anything about Westeros, do you? Well, perhaps one of the Starks wants to explain it to you. It’s probably calming for them to know that their family has no fathers and sons left to be burned alive.”

Daenerys Targaryen has blanched more than her hair. If Jaime Lannister is this brave on the battlefield as well, he’ll be of good use for them, two hands or not.

“Jaime,” Tyrion tries to interrupt his brother’s rant for naught.

“Bran?” Sansa whispers to the brother on her right. Bran’s eyes fall close immediately and after a few moments he opens them again and nods slowly. The Kingslayer is telling the truth then. Sansa starts feeling sick after all. Her eyes find Jon’s who is already looking at her and Bran behind the back of the oblivious Targaryen Queen whose eyes are fixed on Jaime Lannister, her closed lips trembling with barely controlled anger.

One could hear a pin drop in the room.

Ser Jaime makes a few steps towards the other Lannister, “This is the woman you believe in? The woman you chose over your own family? Your people?”

“I’ve never- “, Tyrion tries but is interrupted once more.

“All my life I have been shamed and looked down upon by men lower than me for killing the Mad King – I don’t regret it; I’d do it again in a heartbeat – and you go out and bring his daughter with her three dragons to Westeros? Have you lost your mind?” It is hard to antagonize Jaime Lannister, when Sansa agrees to every single word leaving his mouth.

Tyrion looks on the floor, when he opens his mouth again, he is interrupted by the woman in question.

Daenerys asks Jaime Lannister with menacing sharpness, “Are you quite done talking then?”

Jaime removes his eyes from his brother and turns back to the Lord’s table, waiting for the Dragon Queen to explain herself.

Oh, Jaime Lannister, you naive summer child, Sansa thinks about the man twice her age.

“When I was a child my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father – and all the things we would do to that man,” Daenerys Targaryen begins.

Sansa leans back in her chair and thinks that if only Daenery’s brother spent more time telling her about their father, not just his killer, perhaps then they would all be spared this miserable get-together.

“I’ve waited all my life for this moment and I never expected you to come quite so willingly,” she continues, “However, despite your vile accusations, I’ll prove to my people of what a just woman I am: bend the knee and I’ll forgive you the crimes committed against my father or refuse and die.”

Jaime grins and shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe the words coming out of her mouth.

“No, I will not.” Jaime says after recollecting himself, “I have committed no crime against your father that is yours to forgive. Or is it a crime to save half a million people from being blown up by wildfire on the order of the Mad King? I came here to fight for the living, as I always have. Am I just allowed to do that if I call you ‘your grace’?”

“Of course not. Titles don’t matter; there is only one war and one enemy that does.” Sansa says. Jaime looks up at her in surprise, as if he has never seen her before.

Jon scoffs at her stealing his words but she doesn’t care. How can he love a woman like that? Jon is the most honourable man she has ever known besides their father and Robb while Daenerys Targaryen is … -

… is talking again, “And of what use could a cripple be? No, if he won’t bend, then there’s only one punishment to restore justice, and only one method to conduct- “

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa can’t stop herself from interrupting the Dragon Queen. She heard enough of that woman’s justice to know that there was no place for it in Winterfell. Her ancestral seat has seen much tragedy but she promised herself that the times of cruelty ended the day they took back the North from Ramsay Bolton. “The last time you’ve been offered guest right, you threw my nine-year-old brother through the window of the highest tower in Winterfell. Why would we grant you that right once more? Why would we trust you enough to let you stay?”

“I have committed a great injustice to your brother and your family. For this, and this alone, I ask Bran and your family for forgiveness. I promise you, I’m not the man I was then. But even if I won’t be forgiven, I pledged to fight for the living as I always have. I may have forgotten my ways for a time but I swear to be truthful and I intent to keep my word. On my honour.”

“Your honour?” Jon grumbles. “Who would vouch for your honour then?”

“I will, my lord.” Brienne stands up without hesitation.

Every eye in the room turns to where Brienne stands in the first row on the right side of the hall; most significantly Jaime Lannister’s whose eyes seem to have spotted a miracle made flesh in the form of the Maiden of Tarth. Brienne blushes and her blue eyes flee first to the floor and then find Sansa’s.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne continues, “I pledged to your mother that I would always protect you and your sister Arya. I would never allow any threat near either of you. Jaime Lannister rode north to fight with us and I know he will. I trust him completely, my lady.”

Sansa studies Jaime Lannister.

He still looks so much the man she met all these years ago who seemed to care about no one but himself; who’s pushed a little boy out of the window to hide his incestuous feelings. Incestuous feelings. Sansa’s stomach twists at the thought, for more than one reason.

However, this version of Jaime Lannister jumped into a bear pit to save the woman who has been travelling with him as her prisoner for weeks. This Jaime Lannister gave Brienne free passage so she could talk to the Blackfish on Sansa’s behalf. This man has now seemingly abandoned the sister he once loved so much to risk his life against the Army of the Dead.

She returns to meet Brienne’s eyes, all the blonde woman’s trust put in them. Brienne has been in the North merely a year but in this short amount of time, the warrior maiden managed to earn herself a high repute that fills Sansa with great pride, not just on Brienne’s account but also on the North’s.

It’s an acknowledged truth that Northerners are a rough people who give foreigners a hard time, however, visible on the example of noble women like Brienne of Tarth, or for that matter her mother, the Lady Catelyn, it is perfectly possible to overcome their initial opposition.

Sansa looks from Brienne to Bran to confirm whether this is alright with him but he only stares straight ahead at the man he has been waiting so long for, a non-readable expression on his face. She wants to shake her little brother, so he tells her why this man is so important to him.

“Bran,” Jon says, “how do you feel about this?” Sansa turns her neck to look at the man who took back Winterfell with her when all he wanted was to go south and get warm, simply because she asked him to.

Jon’s dark brown eyes are on her and she can’t help but feel all the things she’s not allowed to feel. What would father say if he knew what shameful desires keep her up at night? Seven heavens, her mother would have plenty to say.

She still can’t quite believe that Jon came back to her from Dragonstone. The more moons came and went, the more she doubted to ever see his face again but here he is in the flesh, his hand snaked around the one of his Targaryen Queen, the woman he loves.

Jon must think that Sansa curses his ever coming home after their conversation in her solar the other night; however, she is more relieved that he is finally home again than she is upset that he brought a woman with the greatest army in the world and two full grown dragons with him.

Enclosing her arms around his broad figure when he approached her in the courtyard, she allowed herself to breath freely for the first time ever since he proclaimed his leave for Dragonstone.

However, her relief didn’t last long, as she spotted the white-clothed queen. She looked like a saviour, their saving grace, just as the vibrant gowns of King’s Landing once promised joy and sweet summer nights.

Daenerys Targaryen looks even more beautiful than Littlefinger made her out to be, and for a reason Sansa thinks wiser not to dwell upon, it upsets her in ways she can’t even begin to describe. But it is no wonder that Jon, who spent so long in celibacy, fell for a face this pretty and curves so delicate.

“The past is the past; it means nothing when there is no future. We’ll need him in the wars to come.” Bran replies in the monotone voice she has become so used to.

Truthfully, although it fills her with a sense of shame, she cannot remember what his voice sounded before, when he could still walk, when he was still her little Bran.

This Bran, however, has been sitting outside in the rain all night, waiting for an ominous old friend, and refused to come inside despite the several times Sansa offered to bring him in. Sansa’s surprise was endless when she realized it has all been for Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.

Sansa looks to Jon once more, this time for his approval. He may not be King in the North any longer but if she can help it, the crown will be back on his head as soon as the Night King is defeated. Also, he is her elder brother and she wants to let him know that he is still on the in; still very much part of the pack.

He looks tense and she knows why. Daenerys won’t be pleased with her decision but the moods of Her Grace will have to wait until the Dead are defeated.

Jon nods slightly, less to indicate a decision but to make clear that he will stand behind her decision. To her, he still looks like the King in the North and she refrains herself from shuttering at his sight. She can’t get shaken by her brother’s appearance in front of all their banner men, Jaime Lannister and especially not Daenerys Targaryen.

Sansa stands up.

“It is decided then,” Sansa raises her voice, so that even the men in the last row will hear her, “Ser Jaime Lannister, I hereby offer you, on behalf of Lord Jon Snow, Warden of the North, and myself as the Lady of Winterfell, guest right for as long as you behave accordingly and until the war against the Army of the Dead is done with. On our honour,” she says with a side glance on Jon, “no harm shall fall upon you inside these walls.”

Daenerys Targaryen jumps from her seat; the red of her cheeks matching the one bleeding from the white fur of her overcoat. She truly is the most beautiful and terrible sight Sansa’s eyes ever laid upon.

“I demand justice for my father!” Daenerys exclaims, “And everything my brother and I had to endure as a consequence of his slaughter. I will have my justice! I will have it with Fire and Blood! Take him!” she shouts to the two Dothraki men at the end of the hall.

At the same time five dozen swords of Stark bannerman and Knights of the Vale leave their scabbards. There is no way for the Dothraki men to reach Jaime Lannister without getting themselves killed. They shout something to their Queen but she is too busy to reply, as she is listening to something Jon whispers in her ear. She still looks agitated and Sansa never knew that Jon has a way with words but they seem to work on his lover anyways. Maybe he is only good with words when speaking to the person he’s in love with. Sansa’s eyes drop down to where Jon’s hand is rubbing up and down Daenerys Targaryen’s arm.

Sansa trembles with the need to stop her eyes from taking turns in their sockets. The brother Daenerys watched getting a crown of liquid gold, the only family she has ever known; how much can his suffering mean to her?

Sansa thinks of Jon then. For a time, she thought he was her only family left, too. And he was the most precious thing in the world, and truthfully, still is. She thinks of someone threatening to do the same to him that was done to Viserys Targaryen but she can’t even bear the thought. 

Ever since Bran told her about this crowning incident, Sansa wondered what kind of person this woman must be in her heart. Jon is but her half-brother and they were never close when they were children but she’d throw any man who dare harm him to the dogs.

As if Her Grace never said a word, Jaime looks from one Stark to the other until his eyes fall on Sansa.

“I thank you, my lady,” Jaime says, “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Sansa nods and that is all she can offer him for now. She may have forgiven him for throwing Bran out of the window but she still remembers. He will need to proof that the faith Brienne puts in him is well placed and that he truly is a changed man. But they share many enemies now, and Sansa feels as if they are off to a good start.

“Jon!” Daenerys shouts enraged.

Jon throws a short glance at Sansa, that makes her feel guilty, to put him in a situation like this. “My sister is the Lady of Winterfell,” he says and pets his Queen’s arm once more, “it is her right to invite anyone she pleases into her home.”

Sansa wishes she wouldn’t notice the way his fingers touch this other woman. Knowing that she needs to snap out of it before anyone notices her leering at her brother’s hand caressing his lover, she looks back up into the room, only to meet the gaze of Jaime Lannister. He looks at her as intrigued as he did when she first spoke up. She wants to revoke her guest right from him, just to see the outlines of a smirk vanishing from his lips but she knows that she’s being unreasonable.

“Well, maybe she shouldn’t be then,” a soft voice to her side whispers in Jon’s ear but loud enough for Sansa to understand. Forcing her eyes forward, she gathers her skirts and leaves the room, as gracefully as if she heard nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well ... I'm going nuts waiting for the next episode, so my thoughts wouldn't stop circling around this until I wrote it down.
> 
> Please let me know what you thought xx


	2. Tea with the Queen

“Come in,” Sansa hurries to say at hearing the knock at her door. Finally.

Despite the tension at Jaime’s trial this morning, and her and Jon’s stirring conversation the other night in this very place, Sansa can’t help but feel relieved that he is seeking her out to talk – and to talk they have plenty.

Perhaps, he has come to the realization that his Good Queen may not be as just and honourable as he thought her to be. Maybe they could even start discussing how they would handle the unbending of his knee once the war against the Army of the Dead was done with.

But when the door opens, a terribly beautiful girl with thick black curls and a bottle of red wine in her hands steps through and Jon is nowhere to be seen. She tries not to concentrate on how her stomach tightens in disappointment.

The woman smiles kindly at Sansa but then chooses to busy her brown eyes with the tiles of the floor, her smile faltering just the slightest bit as Daenerys Targaryen steps in next to her, a self-assured grin gracing her features and eyes sparkling with mischief. Sansa automatically straightens at the sight and offers a short “Your Grace” to acknowledge such high presence in an appropriate manner.

I am Sansa Stark, the warrior of Winterfell, this is my home and you can’t frighten me.

As if he heard her thought, Ghost’s head shoots up from the spot he’s been sleeping on in front of the warming fire to see who joined them.

“My lady,” the curly-haired woman starts, throwing an uncertain glance at the wolf as if she’s never seen one before – which might as well be the case – and continues, “the Queen asks for an … amicable word in private.”

Ghost pushes himself up until he sits on his hind legs and watches the visitors with great interest. As far as Sansa can tell, at least. Maybe the sly wolf is just waiting for someone to feed him a snack.

Sansa takes a slow and pointed look down at the papers still in her hand and scattered all across her desk, dragging out the moment to empathize on how someone here is actually getting work done while others occupy their time with dragon riding and conducting ‘justice’.

She closes her eyes for a moment when she realizes how obvious her behaviour must be and silently curses at herself for her own stupid pettiness.

Courtesy is a lady’s armour. Courtesy is a lady’s armour. Courtesy is a lady’s armour.

“You look terribly busy,” Daenerys Targaryen starts with peaked eyebrows, “If now is not a good time to receive your Queen …”

“No, of course not, your Grace,” Sansa, finally remembering her good upbringing, hurries to say, and pushes the papers to the side, “You are my priority. Please, sit down if it please you.”

It was the right thing to say and Daenerys honours her with a raised head as if Sansa complemented her and the smug smile she remembers from the courtyard returns to her lips.

The Dragon Queen turns to the dark-skinned woman who is waiting silently by her side and grants her a short nod. The young woman who can’t be much older than her mistress places the bottle on the table before she hurries to arrange a chair at the Queen’s pleasure and then leaves the room, only to return a moment later with two plates in her hands and in the company of an elder woman who carries a tray with something that suspiciously looks like a sweet Sansa once adored. It feels like a lifetime ago that she has been that girl who got excited at the sight of lemon cake.

“That is a big dog you have there,” Daenerys says, eying Ghost with some scepticism but there is no fear in her words. In comparison to her dragons, the direwolf couldn’t be more frightening to her than a squirrel would be to everyone else.

“It’s a wolf, your grace,” Sansa says, while taking a set of cups from the cupboard and placing them on the table, “a direwolf to be precise.”

“Ah,” Daenerys says, as if she can’t tell the difference between a dog and a wolf and couldn’t care less about it. “It sure seems to guard you well.” Ghost leaves a small growl as if to prove her point.

Sansa can’t forbid her lips a small smile, because Ghost really does, almost as if someone ordered him to.

When the grey-haired woman sets the lemon cake down on the table, Sansa eyes at her more carefully to thank her for serving them. Sansa assumed that the woman must be in the Targaryen Queen’s service as well, like the other woman, however she now recognizes her as one of the women who has been working the kitchens since Sansa was a young girl. One of the few who stayed through it all.

“Thank you, Elinor,” Sansa says to the elder woman. “How is everything down there?”

Before Jaime’s trial Sansa visited the kitchens on the lower level of the castle to check on the progress they were making with the rations. It has been bursting with life while quick fingers baked dry bread, pickled meat and vegetables and preserved winter fruits with a haste that only impending war can demand.

“Well, milady, preparing the cake and baking it threw me a little behind but I’ll stay longer to make sure I meet my quota.”

Sansa forces herself to not side-eye Daenerys, for keeping the good people of Winterfell from their war preparations just so she could tease Sansa for who knows what, but probably as a retribution to her granting Jaime Lannister guest right. Instead, Sansa places her attention on Elinor who fumbles nervously with her fingers.

“No, you finish as always. You need your rest, too,” Sansa decides, “but no more special requests that aren’t cleared by me. Or the Ki- …. or Jon Snow.” She hates the thought of Jon asking them for something, only to be told that he has nothing to say anymore and that they’ll have to speak to the Lady of Winterfell first. She trusts him not to place unreasonable demands, as he has always been the driving force behind this war. He may not wear a crown any longer but there’s no need to rub it in his face.

“Or by me,” the Queen adds softly, probably missing the whole point of this on purpose.

Elinor looks from one woman to the other, her brow crumbled in confusion.

“Thank you, milady,” Elinor says slowly before she turns to Daenerys, “your grace.” After the Queen nods, the older woman takes a discreet look back at Sansa and once she gives her approval too, Elinor leaves the room. 

Sansa’s eyes meet those of a very pleased Daenerys Targaryen while the woman with the black curls starts to cut the cake. Sansa Stark recognizes a power play when presented with one, especially one as poorly cloaked as this one: from Winterfell’s kitchens to the King in the North – what the Queen wants, she takes. Probably with Fire and Blood, or some nonsense like that.

“This is Missandei,” Daenerys says while the woman in question looks up from her work to smile at Sansa once more. She decides she likes this one. “She has been with me for a very long time. Men made her a slave until I came and broke her chains. Now she is the only family I have.” Daenerys reaches forward and gives Missandei’s busy fingers a short press that she replies in turn.

“Missandei,” Sansa says, trying the name on her tongue, unable to think of anything else to say, “that is a very pretty name. I’ve never heard it before.”

“Thank you, you are too kind. It’s from Naath in the Summer Sea, my lady,” Missandei says, “I am far from home. Just as this wine.” Missandei places a filled cup before her.

“Do you miss it?” Sansa asks without planning to. It overcame her, for Sansa knows all too well what it means to be a long way from home. It is the most terrible thing in the world.

“My place is here,” Missandei says after one heartbeat too many and hands Sansa her plate and with a smile, “by my Queen’s side. Wherever she may go.” It is what Missandei says, but not what Sansa hears.

I’m loyal to King Joffrey, my one true love, shoots back in Sansa’s memory but she realizes quickly that she’s being unfair; she knows nothing of their relationship. Only that Sansa doesn’t order Arya or Bran to serve her guests cake and wine.

Missandei turns away and halts in front of her Queen. For a moment, Sansa wonders what she is going to do when Missandei reaches forward and rearranges a loose loop of hair in the Dragon Queen’s artfully prepared crown of braids. Sansa hasn’t noticed before but now she realizes that the Queen’s hair is definitely less in order than it was during Ser Jaime’s trial.

Her stomach takes a summersault and the smell of the lemon cake before her, filling her nose, makes her want to vomit. So, Jon is still very much loyal to the woman he bent the knee to. Sansa can see those big hands of his raking through her white hair, can imagine him tugging her head back by her braided crown to get better access to all the places that matter.

Sansa forces herself to look away from the white hair and meets the eyes of first Missandei, whose eyes immediately drop to the floor and then Daenerys Targaryen who has a pleased smile on her lips. Missandei quickly bows and leaves them alone.

This woman couldn’t know of her heart, could she? No, Sansa reassures herself, she is a Targaryen; the mere occurrence of Sansa being Jon’s sister makes her a romantic rival in Daenerys’ eyes. Just like Arya. That last thought sickens her. Seven Heavens, what is wrong with her?

“I hope your Grace took no offense during the trial earlier,” Sansa says, figuring they might as well cut to the chase. The sooner they are done with whatever the other woman has to say, the sooner she could seek out Jon.

“Tyrion told me lemon cake is your favourite,” Daenerys says and Sansa realizes that they will have to do this at the Queen’s pace. She sighs and pulls the plate closer to her. How is Sansa expected to sit in here and eat lemon cake when she has spent the last moon turns wondering how she is going to feed the whole North, and the last days especially, with all the additional mouths to sustain.

“In Essos, the markets are filled with lemons left and right but here … well we went through quite some trouble to get our hands on some, and not even as fresh as I would have wanted them to be for Jon’s sister. But Ser Jorah found a tray at White Harbour, it cost him three pigs in exchange,” Her Grace recollects while cutting her piece of cake in smaller chunks with the edge of her fork.

“You shouldn’t have –”, Sansa starts but Daenerys raises her hand to silence her. Three fully grown pigs could have lasted a Wintertown family a long while.

“Please, Lady Sansa, the joy of Jon’s sister is worth a thousand pigs to me,” Daenerys says with a smile that reminds Sansa of the Black Hats they served at feasts in King’s Landing. Little cakes topped with the most delicious sugar-lemon crust but when she bit into one of them and reached the liquid liquorice core, the vilest taste festered in her mouth and it took many a mouthwash to rid herself completely of it again. “I only wish I could meet the other one, too. She always seems to be out and about.”

“Arya … she likes watching people from afar.” Sansa’s skin begins to prickle. She doesn’t want this woman to talk about her sister, no matter how hard she’s trying to appear as her family’s friend.

Daenerys’ chuckles, “She’s not the only one. Must be a family trait, then.” So, Bran stared her down as well. While that is not really surprising, it is interesting to know.

“They are special children, your grace,” Sansa says, not wanting Arya and Bran to get on this woman’s bad side. If someone has to, she plans to fill that spot all by herself. “They mean no harm.”

“Of course not. It is funny, you sound more like their mother than their sister,” Daenerys says. “It’s the same with Jon; he always sounds so protective when talking about them, it reminds me more of a father than a brother, especially if you had known Viserys. Albeit, of course, I’m not the best judge on familial dynamics, seeing as I’ve lost both my parents so very young. And my brother, well, let’s just say you wouldn’t wish for your brother to treat you the way mine treated me.” It is common knowledge that Targaryen siblings used to marry each other.

Well.

Sansa quickly puts a piece of cake into her mouth and tries to make out the taste. It tastes awfully much like shame and guilt.

She could swear that even Ghost’s red eyes stare at her judgementally.

“Anyways, when you see Arya, send her my way. I’m looking forward to meet Jon’s favourite sister,” Daenerys says with a sweet voice, before her eyes widen as if she has just realized what she said. She claps a hand before her mouth. “Oh, that came out wrong. I meant no offense.”

Sansa forces the edges of her mouth to curl upwards, “None taken, your grace. It is true.” Because it was.

“You see, I have no experience with meeting the family and I want to do it right. So, if I’m doing something wrong, I want you to be open to me and tell me the truth.”

“May I be open then, your Grace?” Sansa asks. She didn’t plan on bringing this up but if the Queen was offering so freely, the least she could do, is make an effort. For Jon’s sake.

“Of course,” Daenerys says with a smile although she seems to be surprised by Sansa accepting her offer all so quickly. “Speak your mind.”

Sansa takes a small sip of wine, more to wet her mouth than to feel intoxicated. Then she says, “It was a mistake to force Jon to bend the knee. You should have come to save the North and then, once the Night King and his army was defeated at your hands, the Lords may have accepted you. But like this … it complicates everything. We have bannerman who refuse to bring their people here and every day that passes I have to worry who may leave us next. Everything would have been easier if you could have waited some more before collecting your price. Now, they see Jon as a traitor when they could be praising him as their saviour.”

While Sansa spoke, Ghost has left his cosy place in front of the fireplace to snake himself through the room until he sits down on the floor next to Sansa’s chair. His red eyes watching Daenerys carefully.

“I never forced Jon to bend the knee,” Daenerys says, eying Ghost with interest, before she sets her focus back on Sansa, “It was after I rescued him from the Wight Hunt; he and the others were encircled by thousands and thousands of them. Tyrion advised me not to go but I took my dragons and flew beyond the wall to save them from certain death. It was almost too late for Jon.”

Sansa feels every drop of blood leave her face. This couldn’t be true. While she has been strolling the battlements of Winterfell by herself, wondering whether Arya or Littlefinger would lurk around the next corner, Jon almost died, so far north, all alone, surrounded by Wights.

And this woman saved him. Without Daenerys Targaryen, he’d be gone forever.

I’ve fought them, Sansa, twice, Jon told her but she didn’t listen, too consumed by her own jealousy and anger that he brought home another woman. He tried telling her but Sansa was only obsessed with herself and her own petty feelings that she could never act on, anyways.

No wonder he went out and got himself a lover; the prospect of returning to Winterfell and having no one but Sansa to talk to must have been killing him. While Sansa worried about grain storage and Littlefinger, he found a woman who rode in on dragonback to save him from their most powerful enemy. No wonder he was so intrigued by this woman.

Shame fills Sansa as she thinks back at the way she behaved towards the Targaryen Queen. She owes this woman Jon’s life and not only has she been too busy to even listen to him properly when he was likely about to tell her the story, no, she’s also treated the woman who rescued him with attitude. Sansa’s face must have visibly softened, as the Queen gives her a faint smile and reaches for her gloved hand and Sansa lets her.

“I owe you my thanks, for bringing him back to me. To all of us,” Sansa says earnestly, but Daenerys shrugs it off, and continues her recollection,

“I lost one of my children to the Night King. Afterwards, when we were on a ship to Cersei, Jon was a changed man. I promised I’d safe the North and avenge the death of my child. He was severely injured and yet, he still insisted on bending the knee to me. He was suspicious of me at first too, a true Northerner, but he came to see me for who I am and the things I can do, the things I can do for all of you. He was convinced that his lords would come to the same realization, given the chance.”

So, Jon bent the knee for love. Sansa can’t find it in herself to be angry at him, not when she still sees the image of his dead body lying in the snow before her inner eye.

And Daenerys Targaryen saved him.

Maybe they can work this out after all. The Targaryen Queen lost a dragon to save Jon and never forced him to bend the knee. When she threw a temper tantrum in the Lord’s Hall, Jon managed to keep her from acting out. And once the Army of the Dead is defeated, she’ll go south to take the Iron Throne and marry a Lord to establish her power further. The cold and unhospitable North will quickly be forgotten and Jon will remain in Winterfell as Warden of the North and King in all but name.

Sansa takes a deep breath. For the first time since laying eyes on the young Queen she allows herself a rare thing these days: she dares to hope that there was a light at the end of all this, not just death and misery.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Sansa says once she recollects herself, “why go beyond the wall in the first place?”

Daenerys hesitates and takes a bit of cake. She chews it for a very long time. Once she has swallowed it down with a sip of wine, one hand still on Sansa, she says, “We needed to convince Cersei to join our cause, needed her armies. Jon was convinced we would need every help we could get. Tyrion had the idea to get proof for his sister. Now, it’s all for naught. She’s probably drinking wine at Dragonstone as we speak, while I’m sitting here, waiting, doing nothing.”

The white-haired woman’s face hardens at her last sentence and she looks out of the window where the snowflakes curl wildly in the wind, and Sansa swears subdued anger flashes the other woman’s face.

Sansa freezes, and leans back in her chair, loosing contact with Daenerys Targaryen’s hand. She thinks of Jon’s face when Jaime said that his sister’s armies weren’t coming, the way his utter focus was on his Queen, the way he seemed neither too surprised nor bothered at the news.

But didn’t he almost die for those armies?

No, Jon didn’t go on a Wight Hunt to gather Cersei Lannister’s support. Jon thinks the key to defeat the White Walkers is Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. Now, thanks to the Wight Hunt, there are only two of them left.

What reasons could Daenerys Targaryen have to send the King in the North on such a dangerous mission? The man who is her lover? What is more important than to protect her only ally? More important than the man she acts so in love with, she even allows him to ride one of her dragons? And then she knows.

She’s probably drinking wine at Dragonstone as we speak, while I’m sitting here, waiting, doing nothing.

Sansa almost lost Jon because Daenerys Targaryen wanted to make sure that Cersei didn’t what? Reclaim Dragonstone? What is there but the old, withered castle of a conqueror long gone? What is Jon compared to a pile of stones?

A tight knot pulls itself around her stomach. Breathing gets hard. She thinks of where she touched the Dragon Queen’s skin and wants to scrub off the outer layer of her glove, as if her touch poisoned it. Sansa thanked this woman for saving Jon when she is the reason he has been endangered in the first place.

The air is filled with the stench of lemon.

Daenerys squints her eyes at Sansa. She must have realized that her demeanour changed but Sansa can’t keep her consternation under control.

Does this woman realize what Jon means to Sansa? When she fled Winterfell and Ramsay Bolton with Theon she had nothing and if her father hadn’t brought home this one bastard boy and raised him among his other children, Sansa would have had no place to go. She would have been all alone in this world full of enemies.

Sansa is a survivor. She would have found a way to live but at what cost? And what kind of life? The most likely prospects would have been to either cross the Narrow Sea all by herself, go back to Sweet Robyn and the man who sold her to the Boltons in the first place or go with Theon to the Iron Isles. Sansa heard enough about the Iron Isles to know that it was no place for a woman like her.

Never safe, always on the run. From what she knows about the Dragon Queen’s upbringing, she could probably relate to this sentiment. Sansa would have been forced to run all her life, too. Without a family or a home. No prospect of ever going home.

Jon gave her a place to go. The moment he hurried down the stairs of the battlements of Castle Black and into her arms she knew she was safe. He may not always be able to protect her but he’d die trying. He almost did. Jon gave her back a sense of safety that she hasn’t felt since Joffrey cut off her father’s head. But before that, she never held it in the regard she should have but she learned from that particular mistake.

She told him she’d take back the North with or without him but the more she thinks about it, the less she believes she could have. They were a team and took back the North together. She may have turned the odds with the surprising arrival of the Knights of the Vale but who else would have fought for her? The Free Folk? The Mormonts? You can’t take back the North without the North. And who would have led these non-existent forces into battle?

“Lady Sansa?” Daenerys says, and by the stress in her voice, not for the first time. The Dragon Queen’s hand rests on the black cloth of Sansa’s skirt, just above her knee and she looks up at Sansa, her face in a worried constellation. For once, they probably look like the sisters Her Grace dreamed them up to be. “Should I ask for a Maester?”

Sansa shakes her head before she can verbally form a reply.

The Dragon Queen is family- and homeless and nothing makes her more dangerous than this. She has no crown yet, no people she doesn’t pay for.

Daenerys Targaryen has everything to win while Sansa has everything to lose. Her family, her home, her people.

“No. Please forgive me, your Grace,” Sansa finally manages to say, trying to keep the thickness off her voice. She needs to get away and figure out how to get rid of her. If this Queen is the price for better odds against the White Walkers, it is too high. This woman who treats people she calls family like servants, and holds the life of the man she seems to be in love with in so little regard – how would she treat her real servants or people she doesn’t love?

“It must be all the stress,” the white-haired woman replies, not unkindly, “that your brother has been burdening you with over the last moons.” For some reason, hearing the Dragon Queen call Jon her brother bothers Sansa more than when other people do.

He’s not my brother, Sansa wants to shout, he can’t be. But he is.

“Perhaps,” Sansa replies quickly, figuring the best way to deal with this woman is to seemingly oblige her every word.

“Come to speak of it, I have never received a formal education like you have, so understand me asking … how come you are the Lady of Winterfell when you have an older brother perfectly capable of being the Lord?” Daenerys wonders.

“Jon would have never accepted to take Winterfell for himself,” Sansa explains, happy to have finally reached the reason of this unexpected visit, “As King in the North he outranked me and as my family he would have been free to stay here as long as it pleased him.”

“But he’s not King in the North any longer,” Daenerys says, “However, he is Warden now, and I’ve been told by Tyrion that traditionally they are also the Lords of Winterfell.”

Sansa wonders whether there was anything Tyrion knows about the Starks or the North that he hasn’t shared with his Queen.

“They were,” Sansa offers.

“As I haven’t spent much time in this country, traditions are a matter I take very seriously. People shouldn’t feel like everything changes just because Daenerys Targaryen landed with her armies and dragons. As the Northerners seem to be especially concerned with me, I think it would be a wise choice to revive this particular tradition. To give them a sense of stability.”

“Whatever pleases you, your grace,” Sansa says with an even voice, “Did you talk with Jon about this?”

“I did. I think he was afraid to be taking anything away from you, however I could tell how much he wants it. To be Lord of Winterfell.” He isn’t the only one.

I’ll make him, Sansa thinks. And then, Stop it. What is wrong with me?

“Jon told me how upset you were by his leaving Winterfell to join my cause,” Daenerys starts. Join her cause? That’s not exactly how she remembers the reasoning behind his decision to go to Dragonstone. “It must have been most exhausting for you to take on so much responsibility. Now, that you won’t have to carry such burdens anymore, you’ll be free to be at your husband’s side.”

No.

“I don’t understand,” Sansa says, albeit knowing exactly where this is going. “My husband, your grace?”

“Tyrion,” the Dragon Queen says before taking a particularly long sip from her wine. “He’ll be in King’s Landing after I’ve taken my crown. After having fought so valiantly to have one Lannister man in your life, I thought you wouldn’t mind getting the other as well. You have been married, or have I been misled?”

Ghost lets out a growl that would have terrified most men, but Daenerys sits calmly in her chair, her eyes not faltering once. But Ghost continues and soon bares his teeth. Saliva drops on the floor from the edges of his jaw. Sansa pats the top of his head to calm him down but the low growl only deepens.

“It was never consummated,” Sansa says calmly. Never again will she set a single foot in King’s Landing; and never again will she be married to a man she doesn’t want to be with. For nothing and no one, not even the North.

“Yet,” Daenerys Targaryen whispers. A cold shudder runs down Sansa’s spine. This woman is going to rip her family apart, just because she can.

Let her try, she thinks. Many have.

“Does Jon know about this?” Sansa asks, honestly curious. Would he be happy to escape his sister’s leering gaze? Is he secretly disgusted by her? If he knows, he must be.

“I don’t need to consult with him, I am his queen, and he’s not my husband.” Daenerys Targaryen says, and at the same pitch as before, she adds a whispered, “Yet.”

Yet. Yet. Yet.

She can’t even begin to think about this.

Sansa shakes her head, thinking of something easier to discuss, “I’ve been forced into marriage twice- “

“And this way you won’t be forced into a third one. As women, we must always stay open for surprising twists and turns. I always thought I’d marry Viserys, my brother, and now here I am, preparing myself to spend the rest of my life with the most brooding Northerner I could find. Sometimes, life is funny that way,” Daenerys blushes at the thought of her lover. In another life, Sansa may have found the sentiment endearing.

There’s a knock at the door.

Please, don’t let it be Jon, Sansa thinks. The last thing they need is for him to comfortably stroll in like he did the other night while the Dragon Queen is here to notice it. Thanks to her incestuous family, that woman is way too easily suspicious of close sibling bonds. She may have a point about that, though.

“Come in.”

Thankfully, it’s Arya’s head that pokes through the opened door with a hurried expression on her face until she realizes who is sitting in the chair opposing her older sister and startles.

Finally, Ghost relaxes and strolls to Arya to sniff her up.

“Oh,” Arya says quickly once she has gathered herself and gazes at the Queen in an awe Sansa never knew Arya possesses, “forgive me, your grace. I wanted to talk to my sister but I’ll come back later.”

That little troll.

“No, it’s quite alright, sweet girl. I’m done with your sister anyways.” In more than one way.

Sansa rolls her eyes behind Daenerys Targaryen’s back and she can tell that Arya bites her lip to keep from doing the same.

“But you must promise to have tea with me later,” Her Grace adds in an afterthought, “I’ve been most excited to finally make your acquaintance.”

“As have I,” Arya says with a smile so sweet and innocent, a twelve-year-old Sansa would have envied her for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... they don't actually drink tea, I know, I know.
> 
> I feel the need to say that this isn't trying to be a prediction for the real episodes. I just got inspired and decided to have some fun with a few season 8 plot points.
> 
> Furthermore, I realize it might seem odd how little one-on-one screentime Sansa and Jon get but I promise that will change in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for everyone who reads, kudos and/or comments this. You don't realize how happy you are making me.


	3. A wolf in dragon's clothing

Sansa, Crypts of Winterfell

“Did he really not say what this is about?” Sansa asks her sister as they descend the stairs down to the crypts. These days she’s never too sure whether Arya truly doesn’t know something or if she’s playing the Game of Faces again. She does know however, that her sister would never hurt her, so while she ends up complaining from time to time, she’s never mad about it.

Arya has been through a lot; if she needs the games she learned in Essos to cope with the traumatic events of her early youth then that is completely fine with Sansa. She can only hope that the troublesome times of her sister’s life are over, now that she’s back home and the war is hopefully soon to be over.

The air in these hallways is moist and dingy but it reminds Sansa so much of her childhood, before everything was torn to shreds that she can’t help but appreciate the odour of it. The world around them could be set aflame, but the crypts would always be their safe haven.

“You know how he is,” Arya shrugs and the torchlight in her upheld hand does with her.

Do I though?, she wonders not for the first time. The Bran who returned to Winterfell some moons ago is not exactly the boy she and Arya left behind when they journeyed down to King’s Landing with their father.

In the distance, the light of the torches on the walls licks on three well-known faces and reveals Jon, Bran and Samwell Tarly. Jon’s figure is halfway hidden in the shadows and his shoulders are sacked. Arya and Sansa halt before the trio, she tries to lock with Jon but he keeps his eyes averted as if he didn’t note their arrival. Bran stares at Sansa in a way that makes her shift uncomfortably. As if he isn’t really with them right now but thrifting through some faraway memories which is probably the accurate explanation.

Which memories, Bran?

When no one speaks up the sisters exchange an uncertain glance. Somewhere, further behind, condensate water splashes against stone. Trip. Trip. Trip.

“What do you lot have to look so miserable about, then?” Arya asks, trying to ease the unspoken tension with some humour that is not reciprocated.

Bran and Sam who flank Jon on both sides share a glance and while one keeps shifting his weight nervously, the other looks as if meeting down in the crypts is a daily occurrence of no significant value or interest.

“Is everything alright?” Sansa asks when no one appears to be eager to keep this conversation going. She carefully looks at one after the other, not asking any of them in particular but judging them all. When her eyes land on Jon, she follows his gaze down to the object of his attention. She takes the tiniest step back when she realizes that it’s the coat she gave him before they left Castle Black that he holds tightly pressed against the lower part of his torso. That can’t possibly mean anything good.

Then, it hits her.

He knows. He must.

Oh, by the seven gods.

The air fills and leaves her lungs in nervous little breaths. Sansa can proudly say that she’s never fainted before but now it’s a possibility she can’t exclude.

What do you know of my heart, Jon Snow?

But, he wouldn’t do that. This is Jon, her Jon, and he’d never expose her in front of Arya, Bran and his best friend like this, no matter how disgusted he must be at her abhorrent … feelings.

Sansa can’t stop staring at the two direwolves facing each other on the coat’s leather straps.

She remembers stamping them in the raw leather, the fire crackling in the hearth and Jon sitting at the table with Davos and the others, talking about strategy. From time to time Sansa would chime in to provide useful information but mainly she just enjoyed the odd sense of familiarity the scene gave her. The rasp of his Jon’s voice, the way she noticed him look at her from the side, silently asking her to fill them in on something about this house or that bannerman.

Ultimately, it reminded her of her parents; two individuals, with their own distinct personas, working together towards a common goal, both useful in their own ways.

She remembers giving Jon this cloak and the disbelief displayed on his features before he understood the meaning behind the gesture and how his face lit up when he realized that she truly meant it.

We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?

She meets Jon’s eyes for the shortest moment and while he attempts to smile, it quickly falters away and he averts them to the statue to their side. She doesn’t need to look at it to know that it portrays her aunt, the infamous Lyanna Stark. Beautiful and wilful, and dead before her time.

She wonders then whether he can look at his lover without thinking about what has been done to their family at her family’s hand. How long did it take him until he invited the Targaryen Queen into his bed?

“No,” Jon says heavily, drawing every attention in the crypt on him. Maybe the statues are watching him, too. “Nothing’s alright.” 

He looks so sad, she can’t help but take a step forward but still resists the impulse to reach for his hand. This is about his comfort and his needs, not Sansa’s. She can’t risk mixing that up, especially not now when he looks already this tense.

“Well, it’s not perfect,” Samwell says. “Could be worse though.” 

Jon silences his best friend with a sharp glance – too sharp, and when he notices his face becomes softer again. He takes a heavy breath and rubs his brow while the other hand clutches onto the coat. It’s hard to tell in the torch lit crypt but she wonders whether he’s looking at the embossed direwolves as well. He could be.

“Ned Stark isn’t my father,” Jon says all of a sudden and it makes no sense at all. Sansa blinks and shakes her head slightly left and right and left once more.

Of course, Ned Stark is his father. Ever since his return with the Dragon Queen it is harder not to think about this and easier at the same time.

“I don’t understand …” Sansa leaves the sentence open, needing him to continue, to clarify.

“My parents, my real parents, are Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I was born in a tower in Dorne. Lyanna was never abducted; they were in love with each other. My true name is Aegon, not Jon. Ned Stark took me in and pretended I was his bastard to spare me Robert’s wrath.”

Sansa must have forgotten the Common Tongue in the lapse of a heartbeat because his words don’t make any sense. He could have declared that he’s a duck now, it would have been just as absurd.

“We’re not siblings,” Jon says with emphasis while his brown eyes find Sansa’s. “We’re cousins.” Every syllable leaving his mouth is a force of nature.

Cousins. Cousins. Cousins.

Their grandparents were cousins.

Ugh, stop it.

Sansa closes her dry mouth and swallows in disbelief. Her eyes fall shut in a desperate attempt to make it all make sense. But it doesn’t. It can’t possibly be. Ned Stark is the most honourable man she knew and if what he says is true, then it would mean that he lied to them all their lives.

He lied for me though, didn’t he?

When Ned Stark walked up the stairs leading to the Great Sept of Baelor, he stood there and lied to everyone. He said he wanted to steal Joffrey’s crown, when it was as far from the truth as it could be, only to save his daughter’s life. Wouldn’t he do the same for the child of his only sister? Sansa certainly would. And in the depths of her heart, she knows that her father would, too. And yet, it’s still too much to understand.

“That can’t be true,” Arya argues, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. It seems like Sansa isn’t the only one that took a while to connect the dots.

“It’s true,” says Bran with a stoic voice and is followed by Sam who delivers more details about the discovery. When he’s finished silence falls upon the crypt. Jon’s lips are pressed together in tight lines. Sansa wants to wrap her arms around him and hold him close until he stops looking like a beaten pup. She wants to whisper in his ear that they are a family, no matter what. But she does none of it. Her body is frozen and if she moves just the slightest bit, she’ll crack.

“Well, I don’t give a shit,” Arya decides then, forcefully, “You’ll always be my big brother.” Before he can properly look at Arya, she’s already leaped in his arms, the cloak Sansa made clumsily pressed between their embracing bodies. Sansa may have suggested a less blatant wording but she's glad that her little sister is providing Jon with the verbal and physical support she currently fails to give. She hates herself for it.

Sansa can’t see her sister’s face but if it is anything like Jon’s, then it must be all scrunched up and teary. He lets out a sob that makes her feel ashamed. This wears so heavily upon him and Sansa proves to be completely useless to ease his pain.

He found out about his parents, only for them to be dead already. He would never speak to them, never even know them. Her heart breaks for him. If she could take some of the sorrow he must surely be feeling, she would take all of it. He doesn’t deserve this for few people have earned themselves some happiness more than Jon Snow has.

Wait, no. Jon Snow, that isn’t right now, is it?

Dorne – a Southerner, she thinks with confusion. He looks nothing like it. When she sees him, she sees the North and nothing but the North.

Aegon … Sand?

“No,” Bran says and at first she thinks he can read her thoughts but then she realizes that she whispered the words out loud, trying them out. She would have expected the words to taste bitter on her tongue but they don’t, they’re merely unfamiliar. “It’s Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen. They married in a secret ceremony.”

Aegon Targaryen.

As if the words drew him out of a stupor, he withdraws from Arya’s embrace.

But her sister is having none of it. Instead of letting him go, she cups his cheeks and holds him in place, bowed down to be at a level with her short figure.

“Oh no, you don’t get to do that!” Arya says, “All your life you’ve been brooding around that you’re some bastard and now you find out that you’re a prince and then you go on and brood about that, too. No, no. I’m having none of it!”

Aegon Targaryen.

“You’re not alone in this,” Arya continues, the vehemence in her voice clear and audible. She wishes she could be like this, support him like Arya does but her stupid mouth just won’t open. She can barely manage a coherent thought. After pressing a kiss to his cheek Arya continues with an earnest voice but a smile on her face, “We are one team, one family. It comes with responsibility. No one gets to chicken out from that. Not even a prince of the bloody seven kingdoms!” The last notion Arya says with a little mockery in her tone.

“Thank you, Arya,” Jon says. “That means a lot.” He smiles that smile of his where the edges of his mouth curl slightly downwards but his eyes are teary and his voice is thick with emotion.

“Don’t be stupid. You don’t need to thank me for stating the truth. You’re my brother,” she says once more with resolution. “Our brother. Right, Sansa?”

She doesn’t dare look at him although she can feel his gaze piercing through her. And, why wouldn’t he? Bran … is Bran. Arya would never abandon him but she … she’s the one who could turn her back on him. She’s the wild card. The longer he stares at her, the more she thinks that that is exactly what he expects her to do.

How can she tell him that he’s her brother still when she’s experiencing all these improper feelings; all these nasty thoughts?

“You’re a Stark,” she hears herself say but it feels like an out-of-body experience, as if someone else said it. She wants to say more but she can’t, not when her head feels like it’s about to explode. She doesn’t care whether he’d rather be a Targaryen now, he’s a Stark and he’d always be one.

Relief flickers over his face, but it’s gone as soon as it came. Arya opens her mouth – certainly to voice a protest – but she doesn’t want to hear it. She knows she’s failing him right now even without her sister’s verbalisation. Thankfully, someone else starts talking before Arya has a chance to speak up her complaints about Sansa’s reaction.

“He’s not just a prince though,” Samwell says in what is certainly a kindly meant attempt to distract from Sansa’s lack of reassurance. “He’s the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

And I’ll be Queen someday, a faint memory echoes in the back of her consciousness. She can’t remember why she thought that sentiment to be enticing once.

“Sam,” Jon says, and it’s more a growl than a pronounced word, before he goes on but he’s not talking to his best friend anymore. His gaze is shifting between his sisters. No, cousins. “That’s not why I’m telling you. I’m telling you to be fair to you. So that you have a choice, that once the war is over … if you never want to see me again, I’ll go.”

He’d go?

He can’t.

Never since reuniting with him at Castle Black has she thought him leaving permanently to be an option. But it’s true; he could abandon them now. He could walk away and never look back. Because, considering blood relations, Daenerys Targaryen is his closest living relative now; and his lover, as well.

She won’t let him. “And where would the Lord of Winterfell go but Winterfell?” Daenerys Targaryen said she’d give him the title, didn’t she? All of a sudden, it seems like a reasonable idea. As Lord he’d certainly stay in Winterfell, wouldn’t he?

Three pairs of eyes burn into the leather of her garment and she realizes how off her phrasing must have sounded, considering she’s the current Lady of Winterfell and it has just been revealed that Jon and Sansa are but cousins and therefore perfectly marriageable … if they wouldn’t have spent their whole lives thinking to be siblings, that is.

“I just meant …” Sansa hurries to say but is interrupted by Jon.

“I know what you meant,” Jon says with more irritation than she expects but then she quickly finds out why that is. “There may be Targaryen blood in me but I’d never … I’d never …”

Jon doesn’t finish and he doesn’t need to. He’d never be disgusting like that, like she is.

“Of course not,” Sansa says, eyes on the floor while her cheeks burn as if they have just been slapped.

“No. No one thought anything. You’ll always be our brother,” Arya declares once more with a strong voice and draws him back into an embrace. Jon clings onto his little sister – cousin – as if his life depends on it. Sansa has to look away and ends up meeting Bran’s piercing eyes.

As the three-eyed raven her little brother could look in the past and the present; the dark twisted thoughts of her mind she only has to feel ashamed of herself. But if that’s true then why is Bran staring at her as if she is an open book; one he doesn’t even bother read anymore because he already knows the story by heart?

“Oh, and Jon,” Arya says and leans back to get a better view of him when she delivers her joke, “do I have to call you Aegon now?”

“No,” Jon says, looking earnest, “your majesty will do.” Arya stares at him for a moment before she bursts into a hearty laugher that they all join – even Bran has the softest smile on his lips. Well … their first joke after the reveal has been made and it was actually about his parentage, that is something, isn’t it?

When Sansa’s laugh fades she bites her lip and looks up, where they land directly on Jon who gives her a small smile that feels much too private. If he knew how his smiles affect her, he’d be much more careful around her with them.

She shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other while seeking for some safe space to rest her eyes on. She ends up looking at Lyanna Stark’s statue and everything suddenly feels like a crude joke; as if the obvious was under her nose all along but she still wasn’t clever enough to figure it out on her own.

Would he always be her brother? The initial relief she felt long perished and gave way to the by now all too well-known feeling of despair.

Seven Heavens, what is wrong with her?

Jon can't know, can never know how deprived she is or he'll definitely abandon them. Where would she even go when Jon is made Lord of Winterfell and she’s the one who has to leave?

She’d never go back to King’s Landing, she knew even before Daenerys Targaryen brought it up. Never. The vale, then. A life at the side of Robyn Arryn – what a terrible prospect. The blood leaves her cheeks.

“Sansa,” Arya says.

Arya’s pressed into his side but Jon’s focus is on Sansa still. Sansa wants to strive forward and … but she can’t. She can’t move any closer for she is not to be trusted around him. Jon’s still here and judging by the way he clings to Arya for support he doesn’t plan on changing that. As long as Sansa doesn’t screw up, he’ll stay with them.

That is all she dares to hope for and she can’t put that at risk by behaving improperly.

Arya releases her brother and he takes a deep breath before he walks towards Sansa. One step and then another. He presses the cloak in Sansa’s arms, the heavy fabric weighing them down, before he carefully but decisively takes a step back.

“When you gave this to me, you thought you were giving it to your father’s bastard,” Jon says slowly as if he’s expecting her to lash out. “But I’m not. I can’t have this. I know how you feel about Targaryens.”

No, this is wrong, she thinks. So terribly wrong.

She stares at the cloak in her hands as if it were poisonous. She gave this to the man who let her dare hope again after so long without any; no matter his name.

Without fully registering what she’s doing, Sansa steps forward, shakes out the package of clothing until the hem reaches the floor, gulps down her insecurity and straightens herself. 

This is Jon. My Jon, she reminds herself. All is well.

With trembling fingers, she flings the cloak around his figure until it’s placed safely around his broad shoulders. She forces her fingers to remain calm, so that she can fasten the leather straps with the embellished direwolves across his chest, where they belong. Her heart beats so fast, she’s worried it’ll break through her ribcage. That his eyes are burning wholes in her skin doesn’t help to calm it, either.

She would swear that he isn’t breathing, for his torso remains completely still all the while. When the straps are put in place and her irises move upwards, she meets Jon’s gaze. His eyes are widened, the signs of shock clearly to be found on his features, as if he is processing this as badly as she is.

“You are a Stark, you’ve always been a Stark,” she whispers and his brown eyes drop to her lips so that he can understand her better. Her hands awkwardly pad the fur at the top of his cloak, trying to tame the little hairs as much as her nerves before she continues, “Lyanna Stark is your mother, and you were raised by Ned Stark alongside his sons, as his son.”

Her hands grab his cheeks to make sure he listens carefully as she says the next words, “This isn’t how it works. You’re part of the pack and the pack’s for life.”

Sansa drops her hands when she realizes how oddly her behaviour must seem to their companions. But Jon keeps looking at her with an intensity that makes her take a step back from him. Too afraid of what would happen if she doesn’t. She clears her throat.

She needs to be careful and keep her feelings in line. Sansa can cloak him all she likes, if he decides to leave them, there isn’t anything she can do to stop him. When he realizes her retreat his eyes tighten as if she slapped him.

Her hands curl to fists by her side, and she takes another step back until she can finally tear her teary eyes away. Sansa knows that she needs to bring more distance between them, more air to breath but then she feels the pressure of a large hand, his large hand, tightening around her wrist and before she knows who initiates it, she’s pulled into his arms.

They feel stronger than she remembers them to be but he smells exactly the same, like a forest after a heavy rain. When she thought that she could breathe again when he hugged her in the Winterfell courtyard, it is nothing compared to this. This feels like Castle Black.

She nuzzles her nose into the exposed piece of skin of his neck. His skin radiates heaps of warmth against her face and time fades away. She doesn’t know how much of it passes, and right now, she can’t find it in herself to care. He’s definitely hugging her back, isn’t he? He’s here, holding her close and not running off to Dragonstone.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispers, not able to stop herself. “I waited for you every day on the battlements.”

But as soon as the words are out she realizes their impact when she feels Jon stiffen in her arms. They detangle their bodies from one another and he looks at her as if he’s never seen her before while his chest heaves up and down in heavy breaths.

No, no, no.

She wants to slap herself for her stupid slip.

“Sansa,” Arya reaches for her empty hand and presses it gently, “Relax. It’s alright, we all missed him.”

Sansa doesn’t understand why her sister talks to her as if she is a little child. She turns to tell her just that when she is stopped by Arya’s widened eyes. While her little sister quickly tries to neutralize her expression, Sansa still catches the last remnant of something between disbelief and appal.

Seven Heavens, she knows.

Sansa doesn’t dare look at the others, afraid to see that look on anyone else, especially on Jon.

“I need to meet Lord Royce,” Sansa says then and her voice reminds her of a female version of Bran’s. A moment ago, she felt too much but now she’s numb. “We said we’d make a last round around the battlements to make sure the men have what they need.”

Battlements; her cheeks burn up once more at that word.

I waited for you every day on the battlements. Seven gods, I really said that, didn’t I?

She takes a few steps back before she turns around. She’s going as fast as she can without running while hot tears drop down her cheeks that she doesn’t dare brush off, too afraid that the others would see the movement.

As she passes the statues of her forefathers, she feels as if their ghosts aren’t the only ones haunting her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have upped the chapters to ten, since I managed to make an outline last week and well ... that's how long this story is going to take. And again, this isn't following canon after 8x01, so Dany doesn't know about Jon's parentage. Yet.
> 
> I'm so sorry for not having answered all the comments yet - I was loaded with work and attempting to finish this chapter before the episode airs tomorrow night. But I've enjoyed reading them all. I think a few of the concerns regarding the Tyrion x Sansa marriage will be addressed in the next chapter.
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear what you think about this story! And I hope it isn't too weird that it goes on while the actual episodes air weekly ... xx


	4. When the horn blows thrice ... (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so late and I am so sorry. The chapter is actually twice this long but I decided to split it, so that I could at least get the first part up today. The second part should follow soon, since it’s completely written – I only need to do the fine-tuning. English isn’t my first language, so revising's quite important to me and I don’t want to upload anything I don’t feel good about. Again guys, so sorry. xx
> 
> I feel it's time for a fair warning: MC’s are going die at some point (Battle of Winterfell, or what?) but I don’t want to particularly spoil when and who. So, please be aware that after this I will not give further warnings. No one is safe. (Or are they – we’ll see, I suppose.) However, as this is fanfiction I’m not going for unnecessary cruelty, so no need to fret too much.
> 
> This chapter is from Tyrion’s POV, so it’s a bit “dirty” – does anyone know whether I need to up the rating?

**The Lord’s chamber – Tyrion’s POV**

“I take it she was thrilled at the prospect of reactivating the marriage to her best husband so far,” Tyrion says, giving the richly filled goblet in his hand a generous shake. So far up north the wine tastes exactly like he remembers from his last, even less pleasant visit to the hell that is Winterfell. He’s never tried horse piss before but there must be similarities.

Lady Sansa may do a marvellous job at keeping the Northerners and Daenerys’ armies fed but unfortunately she tends to neglect men’s more base desires, such as drinking and fucking. Evidently, their marriage didn’t last long enough or she’d know the importance of holding such matters in higher regard. Having spent so much time in the presence of that brooding bastard brother of hers apparently didn’t help much in providing her with an accurate presentment of male urges, either.

Joffrey, Baelish and Ramsay Bolton: Sansa had to deal with arguably the worst men to have been found in the Seven Kingdoms – all of them bones and earth by now – and yet, a few moons at Jon Snow’s side and she’s already forgotten the ways of men. Although, he supposes whoring and drinking had been none of her former abusers’ vices.

_I didn’t ask_ , lingers on his mind but he can’t quite place it. It isn’t something Tyrion would say – because Tyrion is always asking. All smart men do.

Daenerys gives him a slow smile that cleanses his brain of all previously entertained thoughts. It’s fascinating how not even the icy wastes of this country can diminish the glow of her skin or the delicacy of her features. She’s a dragon through and through; the bride of fire in the flesh.

_Oh, and what beguiling flesh it is._

Meanwhile, Tyrion’s nose is constantly red tipped and he wonders how long he’ll still be in possession of both of his precious balls, for these days, they are not just blue from a lack of female entertainment.

_Gods please let me keep my balls_ , he prays silently. _Or else, I shall never hear the end of Varys’ mockery._

As well deserved as that may be, he’d still rather prevent it from happening.

“I’m not sure that’s the term she’d use,” Daenerys says. There’s sharpness in his queen’s voice, even though she’s trying to hide it. She wasn’t too happy about Jaime’s arrival at Winterfell and while Tyrion tried to sustain his neutrality at the trial, he knows she resents him for it. For without Tyrion, Jaime wouldn’t have dared to show his face in the wolf’s den. Or is it a dragon pit now?

“Well, the other one she fed to the dogs,” Tyrion says. Small achievements but achievements nevertheless. “Me she just left to hang for regicide.”

Tyrion knows Sansa isn’t to blame for leaving him behind – she was a child and his sister’s prisoner for far too long – she had every right to flee at the first chance. Still, the memory stings.

Daenerys smiles that close-lipped smile of hers.

“I can’t believe it. The noble and just Lady Sansa? Leaving her husband to be devoured by beasts?” Daenerys says with feigned consternation. “No wonder you seemed so reluctant about this plan. Afraid she’ll throw you to that grisly dog of hers?”

“You mean Jon Snow’s direwolf?” Tyrion asks. “Ghost? White fur, red eyes, twice my size?” That must be the beast she’s meaning. Tyrion hasn’t missed the white wolf following his new mistress around like a tame puppy. He wasn’t with the King’s party on the trident when the unfortunate and dooming incident happened but thanks to his sister, Sansa Stark hasn’t been in possession of a wolf of her own for a long time.

The stare Daenerys throws at him reminds him an awfully lot of the one she gave him on the beach at Dragonstone, after finding out about the Casterly Rock fiasco.

“Jon never mentioned a dog.” For a split second, he sees his powerful queen falter to the innocent girl she once must have been, the one Ser Jorah told him about, on a drunken night in Meereen.

Never has she been more beautiful than in this moment, this heartbeat.

“Oh,” Tyrion says, “You know how Jon Snow broods. Talking about his pet would have moved him to tears and he needed to keep up his stern King in the North persona to win his Queen’s favour.”

Daenerys doesn’t reply anything and appears to be sunk in her own thoughts. To keep her mind from going places, he decides to return to their talk’s origin.

“You needn’t worry about Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says, reaching for her hand on the table but she withdraws it before their skins touch. “From what I’ve heard of Ramsey Bolton that was justice.” He wonders whether Sansa ever regretted leaving him when she found herself at the mercy of that devious bastard. Has she dreamed of Tyrion like he has of her, oh so many sweet nights? Touched herself to the promise of his experienced fingers? Thought of him when that brute defiled her? Moaned his name in the dark secrecies of her chamber? Tyrion, she’d purr, Tyrion, Tyrion.

_Oh, it is wrong to wish for this. But, gods, it feels too good not to._

“Was it?” Daenerys reflects, pouting her lush lips in annoyance. “Funny. When I talk about justice, people look at me like I’ve gone mad. Why’s that?”

Tyrion’s index finger circles the rim of his cup.

_Don’t say it, Tyrion. For once, keep that smart mouth of yours shut_ , he reminds himself.

“You needn’t worry about the Northerners,” Tyrion says in an attempt to keep himself from suggesting that it may be because her father, the Mad King, had a soft spot for burning people alive and Daenerys owns two fire breathing dragons. “Once you’ve saved them from the Dead they’ll get around.”

“Get around,” she repeats slowly. He can tell she dislikes the taste of those words on her tongue. She wants the people’s admiration, their praise, maybe even their love, but not their silent acceptance, never that, he knows.

“They will worship you, your grace,” Tyrion says carefully and he means it, he really does. Relief flushes him when he sees the muscles of her immaculate face lose some of their tension. “But may I make one suggestion regarding Sansa Stark?”

“You don’t want her?” the Queen’s eyebrows draw upwards in disbelief. She knows her hand too well to be fooled; of course, he wants her. He already wanted her when she’d been barely more than a flowered girl with no agenda or prowess and he’d lie if he says that seeing her again after all those years hasn’t made him lust for her. She’s of ravishing beauty and almost as astute as he is.

“You know I do, your grace,” Tyrion says. “I’m just not certain whether it’s wise. Lannisters are not particularly favoured up here.”

Which is a vast understatement. If given the choice he isn’t sure who they’d pick: the Lannister dwarf or the Targaryen with teats and dragons? He can almost hear the smallfolk whisper in mocking, declaring it a choice between the seven devils and the deep blue sea.

“That’s why she’ll be with you in King’s Landing. Or Casterly Rock. Wherever, as long as she’s away from those treasonous lords who look at her as if they have to fight an inner urge to proclaim her Queen in the North.”

_Queen in the North_ , Tyrion thinks. It has an interesting ring to it. _Tyrion of House Lannister, husband to Sansa Stark and King in the North_ , a darker voice of his mind whispers. _Treason. Treason. Treason._

He coughs the sinful thoughts away.

“So, Lady Sansa will be with me,” Tyrion ponders. “Jon Snow, your new Lord of Winterfell, will be at Dragonstone with you. May I ask who will be actually guarding Winterfell and the North for you? Arya Stark?”

“Of course not,” Daenerys says, accompanied by a sneer. “That girl is wild. Ser Jorah. He’s a Northerner, after all. And he’s the only one I can trust with the North. Sometimes I think he’s the only one I can trust at all.” Tyrion ignores her allusive remark. The handling of the North needs to be dealt with first.

“Your grace, according to the laws of Westeros, Ser Jorah should have been executed many years ago by Ned Stark – the man whose castle you now want to give him in all but title.”

Daenerys doesn’t like this reply; he can see it clearly on her features. But he can also see the first hints of defeat, for like so often before Tyrion manages to be her voice of reason. He succeeded in talking her out of burning King’s Landing to a crisp in the past – of course she’d also listen to him in a matter of such comparably inferior importance.

“Who should I leave in charge then?” Daenerys asks.

“Let them have Sansa Stark. You can’t snatch away their king and their lady and give them a disgraced knight instead. They will never accept that. I mean it. You know I want her. I’ve always wanted her. But I’m giving her up willingly because if you do this they’ll rise against you.” She’s unhappy about this but she’ll listen, he knows it. She has to.

“And what are they doing right now? Kissing my feet? Hardly. I have two dragons. I have the Unsullied and the Dothraki. There’s not much they can do about it.”

Tyrion sighs. Right now, Daenerys the Conqueror is speaking, not Daenerys the Queen.

_You need to find a way to make her listen_ , Varys’ voice rings through his head.

“I thought that’s not the kind of queen you want to be,” Tyrion says, calmingly, before taking a sip. The wine runs down his throat but his mind is too busy to take note of its taste.

Daenerys rises briskly to her feet and strides across the Lord’s chamber until she comes to a halt before the hearth. For a few moments, she does nothing but watch the flames dance in their colourful dresses. Her breath is heavy, he can see her teats rising and falling beneath her black dress. He appreciates the view but for the good of everyone he must find a way to calm her down.

“It’s not the kind of queen I want to be. It’s the kind of queen they force me to be. If they would just show me the respect I …”

Tyrion doesn’t understand her stubbornness on this matter. Nothing opposes the idea of leaving Sansa Stark in Winterfell and in charge of the North on her brother’s behalf as Warden. If anyone but Jon Snow could hold the North, it is her.

He thinks back to Sansa’s and their queen’s frosty greeting in the courtyard and their meeting with the lords. The animosity between the two women has been undeniable and didn’t change for the better.

_What do dragons eat, anyways? Whatever they want._ That was a threat, wasn’t it?

And then at Jaime’s trial – after Sansa offered his brother guest right – Daenerys had thrown the young lady glances of doom.

_This is personal_ , Tyrion realizes with a shudder. _This isn’t good._ Reactivating their marriage isn’t meant as a reward for Tyrion’s years of loyal service to the Queen but as a penalisation for his former wife.

“You’re sending Sansa Stark away to punish her. That’s what this is about isn’t it?” he interrupts her. How come that any time Sansa Stark is left in a room with a queen, they end up despising her? First his sister, now Daenerys. What is it with this girl that makes all these powerful women waver and make irrational choices?

His queen’s attention is still directed towards the fireplace.

“I’ve given her many chances – she refused them all. How am I the varlet now? You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I’d marry her brother.”

Familial closeness must seem odd to Daenerys and especially with the oldest Stark siblings Tyrion noted a heightened familiarity due to the trauma they share and likely the time they ruled in Winterfell together, on their own. There is no way of denying it: terror taught them to stick together and it shows.

“They are protective of each other. Their family has been through a lot. When I was at Winterfell the first time, it was brimming with Starks and their wolves,” Tyrion says. “Now, well …”

“It wasn’t that kind of look.” Daenerys says while turning around to face him. “It bothered her, it bothered her in ways it shouldn’t a sister.”

The anger she tries to veil whenever in the presence of the Lady of Winterfell shines through her blazing eyes and tinges her cheek’s pink. It makes her look beautiful … in a volatile way. 

When she seems to realize that he can’t follow her thoughts, she raises her eyebrows, scoffs and rolls her eyes before staring into the fire once more. Tyrion knows that there is no abundance of love between Sansa and their queen but now she’s stretching it.

“Are you suggesting …?” Tyrion is baffled at the notion. Just the thought of the children of the noble Ned Stark lowering themselves to such deviancy is absurd. He knows that Targaryens don’t take offence in the matters of incest, and unfortunately Lannisters neither, but the Starks? No, they were honourable fools, the whole lot of them. It was their doom but now it is their saving grace. Maybe Sansa Stark is more on the blessed side regarding brain capabilities but she is still her father’s daughter. And Jon Snow is too noble for his own good. If he were to discover such inept notions in himself, he’d likely fling himself from Winterfell’s highest tower before acting on it. “Your grace, they’re siblings …”

“Are you really the right person to judge this?” Daenerys asks.

Considering his siblings’ indiscretions Tyrion thinks himself a quite fitting judge in all matters incest.

_I didn’t ask_ , rings through his mind once more. Its origin is on the tip of his tongue when …

… there’s a knock on the door.

“Enter,” the queen says and a Dothraki enters the room followed by no one but Jon Snow. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days and there is a glace over his pupils. But there’s also something else Tyrion can’t quite put a finger on.

“I need to speak with you,” Jon says, sparing Tyrion but a side glance, “alone.”

No use of titles, Tyrion notes begrudgingly.

He can’t help but feel at unease whenever the former King in the North is around their queen. If only Tyrion could forget the way he paused and took a deep inhale before knocking at Daenerys’ door that first night on the boat on their way to White Harbour, he’d have a much better rest at night.

Rage, that’s what’s in Jon Snow’s eyes.

Jon Snow is angry and the way his eyes are fixed on Daenerys he suspects that she is the source of his anger. Has Samwell Tarly told him about his family’s execution? If words were to be believed, he is Jon Snow’s dearest friend. What else can it be? Has Sansa told her brother about the planned resurrection of their marriage? Would that bother him this much? After all, Tyrion is the Queen’s Hand and he has spent enough time with Jon that he should know that while a Lannister, he’s not a bad man.

_And Sansa – I hear she’s alive and well._  
_She is._  
_Does she miss me terribly?_  
_…_  
_A sham marriage and unconsummated._  
_I didn’t ask._

He recalls the conversation they had after Jon’s arrival at Dragonstone. Tyrion didn’t think much of it then, but under the light of Daenerys’ suspicions … can it be? He must admit that he has noticed quite a lot of shared looks between the siblings but that’s just because of their shared responsibilities regarding the North, isn’t it? It has to be, for else …

“Leave us, Tyrion,” Daenerys says. “It’s alright.” She sounds reassuring.

Alright? What is?

Tyrion looks at his queen in question but then he realizes that she must notice Jon’s glare, too and confuses Tyrion’s refusal to jump up and leave with protectiveness. May as well.

“Your grace,” he says with a bow to his queen and a last assessing glance at the Warden of the North before walking towards the door. In passing, Tyrion notes that Jon Snow’s hand is curled to a fist. He takes a last glance at Daenerys’ but her attention is not on him.

After leaving the lovers behind Tyrion wonders what else there is to be done before everything will unpreventably go mad once the battle begins.

_Find a girl and put her mouth around my cock._ Tyrion has to smile at his own thought.

Unfortunately, he isn’t just the son of a Hand anymore – he is _the Hand_ and there are more pressing matters to handle.

As Tyrion passes the kitchens, the smell of roasted pigeon and fried squirrel reaches his nostrils, and all of a sudden, he knows exactly where he needs to head next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will do my best to have the second part up before our next (and last?!) fandom meltdown on Sunday. The next chapter will pick up where this ended but with a POV change and a shift back into the Lord’s chamber to a hot and steamy Targcest make-out session. Just kidding. Or am I? We’ll see, we’ll see …
> 
> Oh, did I mention I'm on Tumblr, too? My name is _Lilmilme_. Well, now you know, I guess.
> 
> Alright, lads, this is it for now. I hope it was alright. I’ve never written anything in Tyrion’s POV before, so let me know what you think. xx


	5. When the horn blows thrice ... (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A prior warning:** we are going to dive into Dany’s crazy brains, so whatever you’re going to read below will be under her bias and does not necessarily display Jon’s inner thought process. This is definitely not a Jonerys fic, I promise. _Clarifying because I got a question about this._

**The Lord’s chamber – Daenerys’ POV**

When the door clicks shut after her Hand’s compact form, silence chokes the room with a rigid grip. For a moment, the lovers are left with nothing but each other, both equally at a loss for words, fully consumed in the other. Jon’s jaw is clenched and his hands are curled to fists. He looks feral with his pulled back black curls, his dark shaded eyes and his brown leather armour. A true wolf, she notes not without satisfaction, and he belongs to her.

All her life Daenerys has been on the run. The only hiatus she ever obtained was during her brief marriage to Khal Drogo but even then, she wasn’t safe, not truly. _Never really._ Before her husband’s death, she ran from cutthroats, scoundrels and Viserys’ wanton leers and ever after she’s been running from her past and everything she had to do to escape it.

_If I look back I'm lost._ And so, she never did.

Before Daenerys allows the silence to drag further, she walks up to Jon and embraces his hands in hers but to her displeasure his fists remain closed. Her eyes wander from where they are connected up to find his. Briefly, she feels as if the brown in them is glaring at her but then she remembers that it can’t be – she’s his queen and he loves her. It must be something else, then.

_Say you’ve missed me, Jon_ , Daenerys thinks. _Tell me you’ve missed me all day. Tell me you’re angry because we never seem to find time for each other since leaving the boat at White Harbour. Tell me I’m not alone in this. Tell me you’re suffering, too._

“What’s the matter, Jon?” she inquires sweetly. She is surprised at the softness of her voice. No one here at Winterfell has ever shown him the kindness his pure and innocent heart deserves but she would change that. All his life he yearned for love and Daenerys Stormborn would finally be the one to give it to him. She’d break him free of the chains of his ingrate family, just as she had done with the metal ropes of the slaves in the Bay of Dragons. “You look like you’re about to murder someone. May your Queen ask why that is?”

She wants to burn whoever put him in such a mood howbeit at the same time she can’t deny the arousal she feels due the way his jaw clenches and his eyes burn into her.

_Good_ , she thinks. _The Mother of Dragons needs a wolf by her side, not a tame pet dog. I’ll burn our enemies and you’ll devour them._

“You told Sansa you’ll make me Lord of Winterfell?” Jon asks and his voice is clipped and rough, as if he’s trouble getting the words out. If she were anyone else, she’d be at unease. But she is the seed of the dragon, the blood of Old Valyria.

Of course, the first thing that awful woman would do is run to her brother and whine about their queen, despite Daenerys suggesting to her that Jon would like being Lord of Winterfell. It appears Sansa Stark’s greed for power has no limit, no border she wouldn’t cross. The wickedness of her makes Daenerys sick to the bone and she knows why: it reminds her of Viserys. Wouldn’t it be poetic if she gives Jon’s sibling the same courtesy Khal Drogo gave her brother?

“I explicitly told you that Winterfell belongs to Sansa, only ever her. I’m not a Stark,” Jon says, and her heart breaks for him. Deep inside, he wants to be the Lord desperately but thinks himself indign. But Daenerys will give it to him. She’d lay the world at his feet – all he needs to do is ask.

One hand lets go of his fist and cups his cheek instead. She expects him to give into her touch but he doesn’t, he almost flinches. The Starks caused him so much pain, so much disregard. His sister is the worst of them and she hates her for it, for the way she’s making Jon feel about his heritage. She hates them all for it. “Winterfell belongs to whomever I say it does. And I’ll legitimize you. I’ll make you a Stark with the stroke of a pen.”

“I can never be a Stark now,” he breaks eye contact and looks at the floor. There is pain in his voice and her heart breaks for this man she loves. If only he’d recognize that all his troubles would vanish if only he allows her to take charge of his familial matters. Once she’s done with his sister, Sansa Stark will be happy to scrub the floors of Winterfell.

“Without Sansa, none of us would be standing here,” Jon continues and it takes her all she has to not roll her eyes at his naivety that while adorable in nature, complicates everything. If this were about anyone but his family, she’d have already dealt with it.

“I had given up on the North but Sansa’s resolution never wavered. She drew me back to life; back into a place of action. I was losing the battle to Ramsay Bolton when she rode in with the Knights of the Vale – they came for her. I would never pay her back by stealing her ancestral home from her, her birth right. _Never._ She’s suffered and bled for it and when she was pushed to the ground, she stood up, no matter her pain, and fought even harder.”

_Brave, brave Sansa_ , Daenerys snarls inwardly. _What about my pain, Jon? What about my suffering?_

Daenerys is now cradling his face with both hands. He worries so much about his sister’s feelings while she doesn’t waste a single thought for him. Jon is too noble for his own good but at least now he has a powerful queen at his side to handle such manners for him. If only he would appreciate her devotion and loyalty.

“It’s only a formality,” she says softly and it’s almost a whisper, almost a promise. “You’ll be on Dragonstone with me anyways, and I’m sure Tyrion wouldn’t forbid her from visiting the North on occasion. Maybe Winterfell would be a good place for them to spend parts of the summers with their children. While King’s Landing is the greatest city ever built, I hear it’s terribly hot during the heat of summer. Casterly Rock must be even worse.”

Daenerys’ jaw clenches when she feels his facial muscles harden beneath the tips of her fingers. Regular breathing comes hard afterwards.

“What are you talking about?” he withdraws his face, her hands suddenly grasping at air. It takes her a moment to understand that he shoved her off.

She’s trying with him, she’s trying so hard but he’s starting to stretch her patience. His voice is hard and carries a finality that Daenerys doesn’t like when he says, or rather growls, “She’s not married to Tyrion.”

_She is_ , Daenerys thinks, trying to stay calm. _Why does this bother you so much, Jon?_

“I think she sees the perks in it,” Daenerys says instead. The blood vessel at her temple throbs violently. “If not now, she’ll soon. Tyrion claims she’s smart. This marriage is a smart choice. Also …”

Jon lays his head sideways and waits for her to continue. His eyes are pinched to an extend where she wonders whether he can still see her properly through them.

“Tyrion indicated that she may not be …,” Daenerys is pausing to search her mind for a fitting word, one that is not a lie but better than the truth, “disinclined.”

“Do you mean to tell me that she,” Jon interrupts to clear his throat, “that she _cares_ for him? She doesn’t.” His head shakes faintly with his words to empathize them.

“How’d you know?” Daenerys asks. She wonders what kind of lies the current Lady of Winterfell told her brother about her Hand. Tyrion is a perfectly fine choice of husband. Daenerys could order her to marry some 80-year-old lord or someone below her rank but instead she’s offering the most powerful man in the realm, the Queen’s very Hand, and Lord of the Rock on a silver platter. Sansa Stark does not deserve a husband like that – the only reason she’s offering at all is for Jon. _It is all for Jon._

“I know,” Jon says, slowly and carefully as if he were talking to a child, “because when Sansa left here for King’s Landing her head was filled with dreams of tall blonde princes, that partake in jousts for her favour and sing songs to her beauty. I know because she was a child being married to a man twice her age and half her size, instead. I know because the moment she could, she fled said man and never looked back. I know because when Sansa returned to me, she told me that the only person she trusted in the capital was a girl named Shae. _I know._ ” His breathing is cumbersome by the time he finishes.

His behaviour is starting to bother her.

Being special in an ordinary world is a wondrous thing but at times it isolates. Meeting Jon Snow changed everything for he is special, too. He took a knife to the heart for his people and lived. He survived being surrounded by thousands of wights. He rode a dragon.

He is worth the bother.

“A blonde prince who jousts and sings love songs to her,” Jon says, looking at the wall behind her. There’s no force left in his words, they’ve deflated him. “That’s who she wants and that’s who she’ll get. No less.”

_What about a dark-haired king that fights real wars for her and showers her with songs of praise? Would he do, too, for the precious Lady Sansa?_

“Where will you find her a prince like that? Under a snow slab?” she asks, her voice filled with ridicule. “Tyrion is an excellent choice. Can you imagine the adorable babes they’ll sire? They’ll have your sister’s red hair and his brains … sooner or later she’ll need to marry anyways. Someone real I mean, someone realistic. She’s young and will be able to bear plenty of children. I’d have thought a freshly crowned king as you were would have made good use of his two sisters of age to strengthen his alliances. I imagine finding a match for Bran could prove harder but …” She leaves the sentence hanging when she takes note of his sharp eyes burning into her skin.

For a moment, Jon seems unable to form a reply.

“I would never marry her off for my advantage, none of them,” he finally says, somewhat lamely. If only she could look in this pretty but stubborn head of his because she can’t understand his resistance on this matter. Jon likes Tyrion and trusted him enough to follow his invitation to Dragonstone. He isn’t just a good political choice for Sansa but also on a personal level. Daenerys knows he’ll fulfil his red-headed bride’s every wish. He’ll be a good husband to her. Much better than Sansa Stark deserves.

“So, what was the plan then?” Daenerys says and is surprised at the harshness in her voice. She’s been a patient woman today but there is only so much she can bear. “You and Sansa play house in Winterfell forever?”

That fetches his attention.

He opens his mouth, about to suggest that her notions are ridiculous or incorrect but Daenerys is sick of it. She doesn’t want to hear any more about how much he loves his siblings and what he wouldn’t do for them. He deserves better than what they’re offering. Albeit, what Sansa Stark’s offering may be up for debate.

“Did you expect her to stay with you in Winterfell forever? What would your wife have said?” Daenerys prods further.

Jon says nothing. Didn’t he plan on marrying? The thought makes her flesh crawl but she doesn’t know why.

_You do._

Daenerys steps closer and looks directly in the brown of his eyes, searching for the hidden truth. “You and your sister,” Daenerys says but it’s barely above a whisper, “you’re close.”

_Too close_ , a bitter voice in her head screams. _Closer than you should be._

It’s the same voice that told her to burn Mirri Maz Duur, that told her to crucify the 163 masters, that told her to burn the Tarlys. It’s a dangerous voice to fill her mind and she doesn’t want it anywhere near Jon.

He takes a deep breath but to his credit his eyes never waver. _Her brave wolf._ “We took back Winterfell, together. For a long time, we thought there was no one but us.” _Too long._

Daenerys understands the notion and that it’s a powerful one. Once, she had no one but Viserys. Then Daenerys’ husband saw an end to it and everything turned for the better. It could for Jon as well.

She walks to the fireplace, hoping to find dissipation in the licking of the flames.

_Yellow, orange, red. Yellow, orange, red. Yellow, orange, red._

“Is that why she fell in love with you?” Daenerys asks after turning back around to face him when she accepts that not even the burning flames can ease her mind this time. She needs to know whether he knows, whether he knows that his precious Sansa is not as pure and innocent as she’s in his fantasy.

The Lady of Winterfell carries a dark heart and he’s overdue to recognize it for what it is: _rotten and ruined_. Both of them have suffered through rape and humiliation but while Daenerys Stormborn rose from the ashes of her past and never looked back, Sansa Stark is still caught in the flames.

Jon shrinks back as if she offended him with her suggestion, as if he’s never heard anything more ridiculous, as if she’d slapped him despite being half a room away.

Jon shakes his head in denial one time too often. _He knows, then._

“She’s not in love with me,” he says nevertheless, struggling to bring the words out of his mouth, as if they were bile he can’t keep down. Whether he’s trying to convince his queen or himself, Daenerys can’t say. He so desperately wants to believe in his sister’s sanctity, it disturbs him to even consider otherwise. It’s almost saddening. _Almost._ “She’d never …”

_Too close for too long._

“She’d never what?” Daenerys interrupts him. “My brother used to tell me that the Targaryens married their siblings to keep the bloodline pure; because we are special. But judging by Sansa’s friend Jaime Lannister; well, brother and sister – it doesn’t seem so special after all.”

His mouth is open in disbelief and his head is turned to the side. His chest rises and falls in short intervals and she wants to go to him and place a hand over his heart to calm his nerves but before she has the chance to, he walks over to the window and lets his eyes roam the outdoors where there can’t be much to be seen in the darkness but the sparsely lit courtyard and the battlements.

“It’s not like that,” he says and she wishes she could see his face. “Sansa’s been through a lot. Trusting outsiders … it’s hard for her. But she will come around, I vouch for her.”

Daenerys wants to draw him in her arms, tell him that it’s alright and pull him into bed with her. She would, only it was not that easy, not anymore.

She understands the pressure he must be at the realization but if he keeps denying its sooth, he’s incriminating himself with lying to his queen. As if that weren’t enough, he now vouches for his scheming sister, too. Daenerys loves Jon but she can’t allow disobedience – from no one. She is the queen and it is her responsibility to purge out every last possibility of treason – for the safety of herself and therefor the stability of the Seven Kingdoms and the lives of their inhabitants. Daenerys Stormborn’s life isn’t just worth that of a random girl – it’s worth every last Westerosi man, woman and child, now and forever.

“You said that before,” Daenerys says and thinks back at the trial of her father’s murderer. “And then she went and invited the man who cut my father’s throat and stabbed him in the back to Winterfell. Everything I have suffered, I suffered because of Jaime Lannister.”

Jon’s back stiffens but he remains silent. A part of her wants to see what he’s seeing through the window but her pride doesn’t allow her to step any closer.

“Guest right,” Daenerys snorts. “Is that even a real thing? She woke the dragon and should have suffered the consequences. But I spared her. I spared her for you. But I’m done now. How is anyone supposed to respect me here, if she openly humiliates and defies me any chance she gets? If they hear her scream in the fire of my dragons, they will never speak against me ever again. If you can’t control her, I will. I assure you.”

This time her words are enough for him to abandon the window and look at her. His eyes are dark as the night outside and squinted. In this moment, he’s less man than he is beast. Jon’s all wolf again and she loves how she’s the only one who can provoke his animalistic self out of his usually well-considered stance. If only he knew how much she wants him in moments like this. How she wants him to defile her; the dragon and the wolf.

He closes the distance between them and takes her hands. For a while he does nothing but stare at them. When he looks up his eyes have rid themselves of the previous anger and are full of love, the look she’s gotten so used to on their journey north, the look she’s been missing ever since they arrived.

His voice is soft but breathless when he says, “You are my queen and my feelings about you haven’t changed but Sansa is my family. You can’t threaten her. You can’t threaten any of my siblings – what kind of a man would that make me if I allowed that? A craven, perhaps, but not a man worthy of the greatest queen who ever lived.”

She admits she’s not too fond of him telling her what she can and can’t do but as he doesn’t have any real authority over her she manages to let it slide. Also, it’s been far too long since he allowed himself to be open about his feelings towards her – she doesn’t want to ruin it.

He does have a point, too. One of the reasons she likes Jon Snow as much as she does is because he’s the farthest thing from Viserys she can imagine. It isn’t his fault that his sister is in love with him and honestly, Daenerys can’t blame the Lady of Winterfell, either. Girls were meant to claw each other’s eyes out to get naked with a man like Jon Snow.

She takes a deep breath and hopes that her face softens the way she intends it to. “You’re right. I wish my brother would have been like you. How different things could have been.”

Before she can stop herself, a red door pops up and the air smells of sea salt and spices and home. Behind her, a few narrow alleys lead down the hill, from where she hears marketers scream their offers, praising to have the freshest products. The taste of salt fish, prickled ginger and mutton is still on her tongue. If she keeps moving forward, towards the red door, she’ll be home. _Home and safe._

The image is ripped away, when Jon cups her cheeks, his grip almost hurting her delicate skin, keeping her face locked in place. “Promise me you won’t _ever_ threaten her again,” he says with a raspy voice and desperate eyes. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “and no more talk of marriage.”

Daenerys lets him wait for his answer. She enjoys the passion he’s displaying too much to end it just now. His ardour reminds her of their first night on the boat to White Harbour. “You have my word, Jon Snow. But make sure you talk to her. She still needs to respect me.”

“I will,” he says earnestly, before his hands let go off her face and drop to his sides. She’d swear the reminder of his grip must be visible on her cheeks “Thank you, Dany.”

_Not the kind of company you’d want to keep_ , she thinks but bites it down.

“You could thank me by staying tonight,” she says instead while fiddling with the laces of his cloak. What better way to calm her dragon? “It could be our last night in this world, Jon Snow. You should be with the woman you love.”

_Not the worst way to go out_ , she can’t help but think.

“Kiss your Queen, Jon Snow,” she tweets, “Kiss her like there’s no tomorrow.” When he hesitates, she decides to take matters into her own hands and tiptoes to bring their faces on one level. She closes her eyes and purses her lips as if she’s a ripe apple and all he needs to do is pluck and devour it. She feels his lips hover above the edge of her mouth, barely touching it and when she realizes that he’s kissing the wrong part of her, it’s already over.

“I need to be with my men,” Jon says in what he surely thinks to be a soothing tone. “To boost moral but we’ll celebrate once everything is over.”

If only it’d sooth her.

He nods his respect and makes for the door. If he’d go any faster, he’d be running. At the door, he pauses for a moment but without sparing his Queen another glance he’s gone and all Daenerys is left to do is stare at the closed door.

For a long time, she’s too baffled to process what just happened, how Jon hasn’t shown the slightest concern about the possibility of never seeing her again. When she’s too sick of the flames she walks over to the window and her gaze flits over Winterfell beneath her. It doesn’t take long until her eyes catch a striking redhead on the battlements, deep in conversation with a soldier and the brick of a man who can’t be anyone but Ser Royce. Oh, how she hates this man. That beast of a dog is with her, too. _Jon’s dog_ , if Tyrion is to be believed.

How long has Sansa Stark been down there? Has Jon watched her while being in a room with his queen, talking about his sister’s indiscretions?

_It could be our last night in this world, Jon Snow._

Almost on cue, Jon approaches the Lady of Winterfell and her companions. Her eyes almost drop out when she recognizes Samwell Tarly at her lover’s side, too. They are all in conversation with each other but she can tell, even from her place so far above, that Jon’s focus is where it doesn’t belong. Why feed Sansa Stark’s hopes when she has just brought his sister’s unrequited feelings to his attention? If she’s as important to him as he acts that she is, why tease Sansa like this?

_You should be with the woman you love._

There is a shift in the group below and Jon and Sansa Stark, while still in close vicinity to the others, stand now offside. The Lady of Winterfell pulls something out of the pocket of her dress and hands it to the Warden of the North, who, after a moment’s hesitation takes it and shoves it under his vest before he gives her something in return. She can’t tell what it is, though.

_No. No. No._

Then he cups her cheeks, just as Daenerys cupped his before, and presses a gentle kiss to her brow that takes a little to long for her liking, especially since all the Daenerys got as goodbye was a half second peck at her cheek. Jon’s hands remain on Sansa’s face long after the kiss’ end.

_Kiss your Queen, Jon Snow. Kiss her like there’s no tomorrow._

When he releases his sister, she pulls him into a hug and Daenerys decides that she has seen enough and turns around. She doesn’t even bother trying to stare into the flames, for she knows they will not calm her this time, she doesn’t even want them to. She’s already burning as hot as the blaze of a dying star. Fire is rushing through her veins and tinging her cheeks with the colour of blood. 

_You can trust Jon Snow_ , Tyrion’s voice rings through her head. _He’s the most honourable fool I know._

They are liars and traitors, the whole lot of them. They woke the dragon and nothing can calm it but a field of fire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear what you thought! xx


	6. When the horn blows thrice ... (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware of how long my chapters end up being. Apparently, I’m in possession of neither self-control nor proper editing skills. Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to make up for the show’s shortcutting of EVERYTHING I’d have cared about? Idk. Anyways, sorry!
> 
> Also, thank you all for reading/kudoing/subscribing/commenting. You can’t imagine how grateful I am for every one of you!

**The Library of Winterfell – Tyrion’s POV**

“Lord Tarly?” Tyrion asks haltingly into the vastness that is the library of Winterfell. It’s a spacious hall assembled with a good dozen floor-to-ceiling shelves that are crammed with scrolls, parchments and books of all kinds and colours. This is not at all what he expected upon learning that the ancient walls of Winterfell are equipped with a library.

What use the Starks have of a place like this is a question to be answered by a higher authority, though. He’s been surprised to find that these rough Northmen possess reading skills at all. Cersei came to that realization in a less pleasant way, he discerns, remembering the unfortunate tome that doomed any potential Lannister – Stark alliance all those years ago, the one revealing his niece and nephews to be the products of infidelity towards Ned’s childhood bud, good ole’ Rob. In hindsight, Ned Stark’s body may still be connected to its head, if the old oaf had never learned to read. What a cruel irony to die for a skill so irrelevant to every other regard of his life.

Tyrion ventures deeper into Winterfell’s best kept secret and finds it arrantly abandoned, the only sign of recent activity is the fire of the hearth and a lit candle in one of the alcoves.

As he doesn’t find the man he’s been looking for, he reconsiders his original plan to try for some lucky girl in a Winter Town tavern and put her mouth around his cock. It _is_ a tempting thought – and not a thousand metal hands pinned to his chest would make it any less tantalizing.

However, restraint is a virtue … or so he’s been told. In any case, he’s better off staying away from the town’s establishments for he’d end up enjoying himself so much, time would fly by and before soon, the horn would go off announcing the arrival of the Dead. No, better to find a boring read that’ll allow him to count the seconds while he does.

Due to the great hearth at the front wall the room is decently warm – as warm as it gets so far up north anyways – and if his eyes aren’t deceiving him, there are dusty bottles of liquor waiting for him on one of the top shelves, too.

_No_ , he deduces, _this certainly isn’t the worst way to wait out the end._

Once he’s poured himself a cup of bark-coloured Northern swill, he settles in the candle lit alcove and gauges the books spread out over the heavy oak desk’s plate but none of the bulky tomes fetch his eye. They all appear to be of terribly boring content.

While he does want time to pass slowly, he doesn’t want to die of boredom before the war even starts, either. That would be something. Tyrion of House Lannister, death by the Stark’s exceptionally boring book assemblage. At least, no one would believe such a story. He does wonder though, whether Tywin would appreciate his youngest son’s efforts to outdo the absurdity that was his death.

He flips close the books’ covers, one after the other, to find them all in possession of _captivating_ titles such as “ _An extensive study guide of the 100 most compelling extinct species of Old Valyria_ ”, “ _Hereditary Mental Illnesses – Perks, Flaws and Opportunities_ ”, “ _Lemend’s Principles of Heredity_ ” or an obnoxiously bulky tome titled “ _A long life – the personal day-to-day journal of High Septon Maynard_ ”.

Tyrion leans back in his chair with a sigh while the tips of his fingers massage the bridge of his nose. He refuses to believe that these were the sources of Ned Stark’s preferred evening amusement. The old Stark had honour but he was an oaf. If Jaime is to be believed Rickard Stark was an oaf as well. They probably looked back to long line of oafs. Admittedly, it isn’t exclusively a Stark trait, for he has yet to meet a Northman that wasn’t an oaf – even the unlikely ones – ultimately, they are at least to some extends oafs, the whole lot of them.

What are books like these even doing in a library in Winterfell? Especially the one about the High Septon – Tyrion could be wrong but he doubts that a High Septon has ever ventured so far North – this is still the land of the old gods. Well, mayhaps on a missionary journey. Not very successful, was he?

He flicks the journal open to the front page and recognizes the Citadel’s stamp underneath the title and what is stated as a self-portrait. High Septon Maynard looks exactly the way he imagines a man who produces something like this to look like. Sporting a long, shabby beard and a penetrating gaze he resembles young Tyrion’s wet nurse to a disturbing degree. Considering her grandevity and that merely a few years prior his greedy siblings had almost sucked her dry, her teats were still in a reasonable state. While a little saggy in consistence, her slack brown nipple in his mouth is one of Tyrion’s earliest – and most cherished – childhood memories.

He feels a strain against his breeches and shifts in his chair to ease the pressure. The stirring in his lower region must be due to the warmth of the room that finally allows blood back into his cock. Before his thoughts roam back to the joys that could await him in Winter Town he decides to get back to the task at hand.

Samwell Tarly must have brought these books with him from the Citadel, and yet ...

Tyrion skims through the tome, wondering why even a man as well-read as Samwell Tarly would bother to steal such a bore of a book from a place that contains every book lover’s wet dreams. The pages turn beneath his fingers without further assistance, remembering the last reader’s interest. The tome decides on pages appearing to be of low significance – they hold neither illustrations nor captions that fetch his attention. The flow of small-sized letters compounded to words is occasionally interrupted by dates two decades past. He notes the tiny piece of paper placed at the top, indicating these pages even when closed.

_Very odd_ , Tyrion thinks, deciding to give the High Septon’s seemingly _very_ long life a chance.

He reads for a while into the page and freezes when his eyes are caught by a name he knows all too well.

_… issued an annulment for Prince Rhaegar and remarried him to someone else at the same time in a secret ceremony in Dorne …_ , Tyrion reads once more, mumbling the words to himself.

This can’t be true. Rhaegar Targaryen did not have an annulment. He was married to Elia Martell and he remained so until Robert Baratheon squashed in his ribcage on the Trident. 

No, the High Septon must have gotten something wrong. Tyrion has never heard of such a thing and if this were real, he certainly would have, wouldn’t he? No one could keep a secret like this hidden. And then he apparently remarried, too. He checks the date of the entry again in case this is about a Rhaegar of another century. But no – the date suggests a time several moons before the Crown Prince’s death.

He tries to remember what was going on in Westeros around that time. The date was somewhere between the fateful tourney of Harrenhal and Jon Arryn’s raise of banners.  
One of the last grand actions of Rhaegar Targaryen was to kidnap and rape fourteen-year-old Lyanna Stark and wage war. It’s highly doubtful that he had the spare time to find himself a new wife, unless …

_Well, unless he married Lyanna Stark_ , he chuckles to himself at the ridiculousness of the thought but it dies on his lips when he remembers the gruesome retellings of Elia Martell’s brains painting the walls of the Red Keep.

_A miserable affair_ , he notes, _no matter its twists and turns._

If they were to survive the Dead, he’d tell his queen of this discovery. True or not, it’d please her to learn that her brother may have been a good man after all. And she’d remember that it was Tyrion who cleared Rhaegar’s name. His earlobes burn at this thought. Maybe, it’d even ease the palpable tension between Daenerys and the Starks, knowing that once before a Targaryen had loved a Stark.

_… and brought seven kingdoms to war for it_ , Tyrion finishes his thought bitterly.

Truthfully, imagining the arrogance of the Targaryens mingled with the down-to-earthness of the Starks is a hard concept to grasp and yet it intrigues to imagine what a child of such a union would have looked like. A child with silver hair and purple eyes running around Winterfell, a direwolf puppy by its side, or mayhaps, as it was the case with Elia Martell’s children, it would carry its maternal family’s darker physical traits but mixed with a fiery temper.

Sadly, with both parents deceased at such tender an age and a Targaryen name in a world with no place for Aegon’s descendants but underneath the cold fallow earth, the poor child would have shared fate with its half siblings – one more child’s entrails soiling the Red Keep’s walls. The history books are already filled plenty with massacred children, no need to add one more with no one to love or protect it. With the Targaryens gone and the Starks reduced in numbers, no one would have bothered to save the offspring of such a union while the Lannisters, Baratheons and Martells would have started a whole new war to get their hands on it.

Well, at least young Ned Stark, he supposes, would have ridden day and night to protect it, and yet, with Lyanna in the South and Ned in Winterfell, not even the speed of the gods would have brought him there in time.

_What is my problem?_

Tyrion takes a sip of his cup to swallow down his wretchedness, wondering why he sobs over some imaginary Targaryen-Stark babe. He ogles his drink, wondering whether it’s been on the shelf too long.

_Wait._

Tyrion jolts upright in his chair. All of a sudden, he feels every vein in his body tingle with commotion. He’s got something wrong, no? For Ned Stark wasn’t in Winterfell, no, he was in Dorne, obtaining the body of his dead sister to return it to Winterfell.

Alongside a new-born babe.

_You. You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you_ , Tyrion remembers saying a lifetime ago. It is one of the first things he ever said to Jon Snow.

_Ned Stark was a man of honour_ , someone that sounds awfully much like Varys says in the back of his mind.

A boy born by a mysterious mother. Fathered by the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms in the most honourless way. Born in the south. Recently spent the better part of an afternoon riding a dragon.

_Riding a dragon … no_.

_It can’t be._

Samwell Tarly must either be wrong or the tome’s here for another reason. With narrowed eyes, he evokes the titles of the other books when a hunch befalls him.

In a haste, he reaches for the book about the extinct species and inspects the index. _Of course _, a vast part of it is dedicated to dragons. He revaluates the other titles before him on the table and recognizes the golden thread spinning through them. Every single volume can in one way or another be connected to the Targaryen line.__

This isn’t the epiphany of Rhaegar’s propriety – _this is treason._

__Tyrion feels the first stings of a headache working themselves through his brain convolutions when the door is pushed open under a lumbering groan and he perceives at least two different pairs of feet walking in._ _

__“… and at first, when Gilly mentioned it, naturally I thought nothing much of it, my lady, just the ramblings of an old man but then I came here and talked to Bran …”_ _

__It doesn’t take much for Tyrion to guess who just waltzed into the library. Judging by the man’s voice and his addressing of a lady, he’d be damned if it isn’t Samwell Tarly – just the man he’s been looking for – and the Lady Sansa._ _

_These damned Starks_ , Tyrion curses inwardly and has to massage his temples at this blatant dearth of wits, _these foolish nitwits._ He has yet to meet a family displaying more eagerness to see their heads on spikes than their lot.

Tyrion jumps to his feet and pops around the corner, revealing himself to the library’s newest attendees. He desires to hear more of this treason as much as he’d yearn for someone to chop off his cock and carve it into small slices to serve at dinner.

_That would solve the food issue_ , he thinks but the humour never comes.

__The always observing Lady Sansa is the first to notice her former husband and presses a warning hand against the chest of her companion, holding him back from venturing any further._ _

__“Lord Tyrion,” Sansa says with her voice a tad shriller than the last time he spoke to her, before gracing him with tight-lipped smile, that neither exposes her teeth nor reaches her eyes. “What a pleasant surprise.”_ _

__Tyrion can tell that it’s not. Not pleasant, at least. She’s trying to hide it and he has to admit she’s exceptionally well at it – anyone else might not have noticed any oddities in her behaviour at all – but Tyrion has known the girl since before she became a woman. He has known of her true feelings during a time she was forced to lie daily and to everyone._ _

__“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion greets in return, “Lord Tarly.”_ _

The previous _Maester-in-the-making_ , face as white as a sheet and with eyes almost bulging out of their sockets, gives him a short nod.

__Tyrion tried to save his father and brother, he did, but Samwell Tarly wouldn’t know of it. And no matter how justified the Tarly boy is in disapproving Daenerys as his queen – they are still harbouring treason – even if their crime only consists in knowing of matters their queen doesn’t._ _

__Tyrion takes a deep breath, wishing that Sansa Stark – who seems incapable of not antagonizing their queen – wouldn’t run around Winterfell, accompanied by other people that are on Daenerys’ watch list._ _

__There is a part in Tyrion that wants to leave the library without another word and never speak of his discovery. Howbeit, he is the Hand of the rightful Queen and it is his duty to serve her as acquiescently as he can. If Jon is Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son, then his claim supersedes Daenerys’ in every regard. Such delicate knowledge in the hands of two likely conspirators, well, the situation certainly has the stench of revolt all over it._ _

__If it isn’t to be helped, he may as well get this over with._ _

__“Are these all your books, Lord Tarly?” Tyrion flicks his head in the direction of the table. “I just had the most interesting read. Quite the story your books are telling.”_ _

__Samwell shoots a glance at the redhead by his side but Sansa’s attention remains on Tyrion. Her eyes sparkle as if they were playing a game – a game Tyrion isn’t aware they are playing – a game she’s winning._ _

For a hot second, he wonders who of them is the cat and who the mouse – which is likely her intention. Sansa _is_ good and if she weren’t halfway up a stake, her straight posture and the black armour beneath her cloak might make him hard.

__Maybe it makes him hard, anyways._ _

__“Doubtful … my Lord,” Samwell Tarly says, trying to appear as fierce as the woman by his side but his voice is giddy and his face glistens with beads of sweat. “I just stole some … some tomes, you know … to spite the old Maes-ters. Also, Little Sam … he, he loves playing with them … so …”_ _

__“So …” Tyrion furthers, dragging out the syllable._ _

__“We actually … we came to pick one up for … for him … for Little Sam, didn’t we, Lady Sansa?” Tarly continues but the Lady of Winterfell doesn’t listen to him, no, her focus remains on Tyrion. Sansa’s ice blue eyes pierce into him with an intensity he hasn’t known from her before. He’d be flattered, if not for the way she seems to hover over him. Was she always standing this close to him?_ _

__“We did,” Sansa finally says, and she’s not kissed by fire, not anymore. Instead, she’s cold as snow and hard as stone, much like the intrepid _Night’s Queen_ from his wet nurse’s tales. This time though, the thought of the old fostress steers nothing to life in his pants._ _

__“We’ll be on our way then,” Tarly says while his chubby fingers reach for Maynard’s journal but in a motion so quick it swells his chest with pride, Tyrion draws a dagger from the sheath on his belt and shoves the tip in the tome’s cover, keeping it trapped beneath the force of his weapon and the oak of the table._ _

__Tarly withdraws immediately, his panic-stricken eyes darting to Sansa, to ask her for either forgiveness or support – hard to tell._ _

__“I think I’ll read some more in this.” Tyrion says, with a smile that isn’t even trying to look sincere. “I’m sure Little Sam won’t mind a different one tonight.”_ _

__The words barely left his mouth when the Lady of Winterfell pushes past her plump companion and curls her porcelain-coloured fingers around the honed blade of Tyrion’s dagger._ _

__Sansa’s breath falls heavy on the nascent silence of the hall and her face twists in ache but no sound of discomfort leaves her lips – her determination is fiercer than her pain. Drops of crimson blood curl down the edge of the blade, staining it as much as the bulky tome beneath but her grip doesn’t ease on the weapon._ _

__Tyrion – too frozen to react – watches his young bride as she yanks the dagger out of the book, releasing the tome from Tyrion’s possession._ _

__Now, that she has lost contact of the weapon herself, nothing hinders the crisp red blood from hurriedly escaping the open cuts in her palm and fingers and with a coiling feeling in his stomach he stares at where it drips from her hand and spoils the book’s binding as much as the floor beneath._ _

_That’s a lot of blood for such a fragile hand_ , Tyrion thinks while wondering who this creature before him is for she’s certainly not the girl he’s married in the Great Sept of Baelor.

__Sansa takes the book and presses it to her side, not bothering about the stains the blood will leave in her clothing. The movement shifts her cloak and he notices the dragonglass dagger that appears beneath it and he can’t help but wonder whether the motion was intentional._ _

__“You want it,” Lady Sansa dares him and it’s more than a growl, it’s a threat, “take it, then.”_ _

__Tyrion’s widened eyes wander from the red-headed beauty to Samwell Tarly who looks as shocked as Tyrion feels._ _

__He has to leave it to the Starks; they may all be foolish cunts but at least they are it for each other. If only his family could have managed this kind of pack mentality, would they all still be either dead or scrambled over the realms, at war with one another? Where could they be if they hadn’t turned on each other after Joffrey’s murder?_ _

__“Lady Sansa,” he says, failing to say anything else but she’s already nodding at her companion and starting to turn around for their retreat._ _

__He wants to let her._ _

_Seven Gods_ , he wants nothing more than to let her walk out of here but he can’t. Not before he knows what’s going on. It is his duty.

“How long have you been hiding a Targaryen heir?” he blurts out, knowing it’s the only thing that would keep her from leaving and it does bring her to a sudden halt. “Or, mayhaps, I should correct myself: not just any Targaryen heir, _the_ Targaryen heir.”

__Sansa shares a look with Tarly before he takes the tome from her and leaves them alone. It bothers Tyrion that his former wife trusts this stranger more than she does him. Once the door falls shut after Samwell Tarly and the valuable tome he’s carrying, the muscles in Sansa’s face ease off._ _

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says slick as a snake. “There’s only one Targaryen left in the world and you call her _Your Grace_.”

_A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing_ , a wisdom from another Targaryen Jon Snow has shared with him. Currently, Tyrion feels as if two Targaryens aren’t making things any less terrible.

__“Sansa, please,” Tyrion says. “Do we really need to play these games?” He reaches for a handkerchief in his pocket and offers it to her, to press against her gashed palm but she bestows it no consideration._ _

__Sansa remains silent, so apparently, they do need to play this game. Tyrion shoves the pristine handkerchief pack into the pocket he pulled it from. He has to admit he’s surprised at her insistence. Given her family’s past, she can’t be too fond of Targaryens and yet, here she is, willing to go all the way for the man he wrongfully called Jon Snow._ _

_You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I’d marry her brother_ , he remembers his queen’s words from earlier tonight. _Ugh._

_Have they always known?_

__Jon and Tyrion once bonded over both being born bastards, Jon by being conceived out of wedlock and Tyrion by being a dwarf. The thought of it all being falsehood stings more than he would have expected. The betrayal tastes like bile on his tongue._ _

“Have you always known? Has Jon always known?” he asks with an urgency he can’t keep off his voice. It shouldn’t matter. The Starks don’t owe him any truths or loyalty but he’s tried to be a friend to Jon when he had no one at the Wall, he tried to make up for his siblings’ crimes by drafting a saddle for Bran and he's always offered Sansa the respect she deserved even though her mother and aunt had wanted him thrown through the moon door. It matters to Tyrion and he _needs_ to know.

__“It’s a rather recent discovery,” Sansa says to his surprise, her voice – less surprisingly – full of ice. It’s interesting to see where she draws the line to being amicable towards Tyrion. They’ve once before crossed the line, after the Red Wedding, and here they are once more. She makes it clear that they can’t be friends, this is bigger._ _

__“Convenient,” Tyrion remarks but he can’t feel much relieve. Daenerys would suspect them to have known all along. “But not very believable, I’m afraid.”_ _

__Sansa smiles shortly before it fades away. She’s measuring him with her sharp eyes and he shifts uncomfortably under her glare. When she takes note of it, her gaze loses its edge and the lines of her face transform into something more open, warmer even._ _

“What are you going to do now, Tyrion?” Her voice is softer now and he likes the closeness the lack of formal title usage indicates. This is an invitation. It’s like she’s saying, _We can be friends again, Tyrion, and this is the price_.

_Almost, Lady Sansa_ , he thinks. He’s relieved to see that at least one Stark has learned to play the game, he just wishes she’d play it with someone else.

__“Not telling the Queen is treason,” he says and sighs. Sansa's face is already losing its pretense. “But you stood up for my brother when you didn’t need to. It seems fair to repay the favour.” If only she could see that he’s not her enemy. “I’ll let you tell her yourself after the battle. It’ll be better if she hears it from Jon.”_ _

__“No,” Sansa says with conviction. “You’re not telling her before the battle because you’re afraid of what she’d do if she finds out. You worry she’d abandon the fight, dooming the world to die. That’s what you truly fear, isn’t it? This is the Queen you chose? How sad.” Sansa Stark looks at him smugly, teasing him to prove her wrong, trusting that he can’t._ _

__“She wouldn’t,” Tyrion says, not knowing whether he’s defending his queen or himself. Is there even a difference? If she’d prove unworthy of the crown, he’d be just as much to blame for her failure. “But why take chances when humanity is at risk?”_ _

__“What happens afterwards?” Sansa wonders. “We defeat the Dead, we tell Daenerys of Jon’s parentage, what happens then?”_ _

“ _Queen_ Daenerys already plans to marry him, as you know, so nothing will change, and they’ll absorb each other’s claims,” Tyrion says, hoping his words would proof true.

__She shakes her head in rejection. “He doesn’t need to absorb any claim,” Sansa says, head held high. “Jon doesn’t want to be king. He wants to be here, with his family.”_ _

__“Is that what he wants? Or is it what you want for him?” Tyrion probes, aware that he needs to advance carefully as long as he doesn’t have confirmation of her real intentions. Is this Sansa protecting her cousin or is this more? “Jon loves our queen, you know. I’m sure he enjoys being back here but he belongs with her.”_ _

“With her or _to_ her?” Sansa asks her former husband. There is no kindness in her words and despite the candle light illuminating her features they aren’t soft. In this light, she’s not just the woman who threw Ramsay Bolton to his own dogs but also the one who had Littlefinger’s throat cut before his own men.

__“Is there a difference? Jon will want to know his family safe – this is how he’ll do it. Also, marrying the most powerful woman in the world – a young and beautiful queen – doesn’t seem the greatest sacrifice. This is right, Sansa. If you love your brother at all, you’ll support this marriage.” He picks every word of this last sentence with intention, and yet when he sees her flinch, he almost wishes he had not. Some answers, it seems, were better left in the dark._ _

__Whatever Sansa was going to reply is cut off by three blows of the horn that scuds goose bumps down his skin. The _Army of the Dead_ is approaching Winterfell._ _

_Seven Gods, I’m not ready to die_ , Tyrion thinks with arising panic. _We were supposed to have more time._

___“We should hurry to the Great Hall, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says, offering her his arm, hoping she doesn’t notice the heart of a craven he carries in his chest. However, Sansa is too occupied with staring at his extended hand as if it were leprous to take note of much else. In an attempt to ease the tension, he says, “I won’t need to fret your dagger in the dark, will I?”_ _ _

“If I needn’t worry yours,” Sansa replies with a chill voice.

It’s only when she turns around without another word and her crow black skirts sway over the library’s floor, little droplets of blood marking her way out, he realizes that his question might carry more validity than intended.

Mayhaps, a mob of dead people won't be Tyrion’s greatest danger tonight.

___**End of the chapter.** _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, no one’s going to seek protection in the crypts on my watch.
> 
> The next chapter will be kind of a _Bonus Chapter_ , as I wasn’t planning to include it but I feel like we are in dire need of a Jonsa moment before the battle starts. It will be the scene that Daenerys spied on from her window but from Jon’s POV. Hope you all don't find that to redundant, but as I usually don't do backtracking, it will be a one time only thing.
> 
> As always, please, let me know your thoughts and thank you so much for reading! xx


	7. Bonus Chapter: The Son of Rhaegar Targaryen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Reminder:** So, this is Jon leaving the Lord’s chamber after his little chat with Daenerys and on his way to talk to Sansa on the battlements, as observed by Daenerys in Chapter 5. Hope it’s not too confusing! But like I said, this kind of backtracking is a one-time thing.
> 
> **Warning:** The Jon Snow below may seem OOC but since the show doesn’t care much about character consistency, I really don’t feel bad about this. The Jon Snow of this fic is altered due to this sentiment:
> 
> _“I do think that if you're bringing a character back, that a character has gone through death, that's a transformative experience. (…) My characters who come back from death are worse for wear. In some ways, they're not even the same characters anymore. The body may be moving, but some aspect of the spirit is changed or transformed, and they've lost something.”_ – George RR Martin
> 
> I hope you’ll still like him!

**Winterfell - Jon’s POV:**

He almost told her.

Jon’s hand rested on the doorknob when he paused and considered telling Daenerys the truth about his parentage. Just blurt it out and be done with the agonising secrecy.

_My name is Aegon Targaryen, son of Crown Prince Rhaegar and his wife Lyanna Stark. I’m not your servant_ , he would have said, _and neither is the North. You rule because I allow it and you will leave because I demand it._

While Jon would rather go back to being Eddard Stark’s bastard than being what he is now, if his Targaryen heritage would prove being the key to getting rid of Daenerys once the war is dealt with, it’d be a small price to pay for Northern Independence.

_Control the narrative_ , Sam had suggested but his friend is in general overly enthusiastic when it concerns sabotaging the woman who burned his father and brother alive. Not that Jon can fault him for it.

However, he can’t afford any mistakes regarding Daenerys, certainly not those emerging from imprudence or a crave for vengeance. He has too much to lose to not play the long game, for if the Dragon Queen knew of his heart, she’d murder him, and then she’d go on and kill Sansa, Arya and Bran. He needs to be smarter.

And they _do_ need her dragons if they were to have any chance at all but Daenerys is more volatile than he anticipated and protecting his family and the North proves harder by the day.

He’s on his way down to the battlements when he stumbles into Sam who looks like a man on a mission. Despite everything, he can’t help but allow the edges of his mouth to curl the slightest bit upwards. There isn’t much connecting this Jon to the Jon that died but Sam’s mere presence pulls some old sentiments forth.

“Jon! There you are,” Sam says and he sounds a little out of breath. “I was looking for Sansa. You haven’t seen her by any chance?”

Jon feels the ghost of a smile fall from his lips.

_Why_ , his mind wonders but he denies himself to verbalize the question.

Is this a normal thing to wonder? Would he ask if it were about Arya? Unfortunately, Sansa and Arya are like day and night and the scenarios not comparable at all. His possessiveness isn’t fair, not to Sansa but also not to Sam whose face is open and kind as always, and who has never given him reason to doubt him, but how can he stop it?

_Not your goddamn business_ , Jon reminds himself. 

“Come with me,” Jon replies trying to sound indifferent and his old friend follows him along, always a step behind.

Jon doesn’t want to question this at first but when he realizes that Sam must be doing it deliberately, he decelerates and asks over his shoulder, “What are you doing?”

“My father may not have deemed me worthy to inherit his lands but I still received the education of a future lord, so I know that the king should always walk a step ahead,” Sam chirps innocently, still taking heed to not catch up until Jon halts and Sam bumps into him ungainly.

“Sam,” Jon growls, patting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. It’s as much a warning as it is a plead. “Please don’t …”

_… push me about this, anymore. You’re my brother and I love you but my duty is to three people named Stark and the North. In this order._

_Would I sacrifice the North for them? Would I sacrifice Sam?_ Jon wonders and wishes he’d have to search his heart longer than one heartbeat for an answer. _I would._

Not for the first time, Jon thinks that some people were better not brought back. He’s certainly amongst those.

“As King in the North you might have gotten away without formalities but as King of the Seven …” Sam never has the chance to finish as Jon slams him into the wall and covers his mouth. His best friend stares at him with gaping eyes and Jon feels his heavy breath against his palm.

_He’s terrified of me_ , Jon realizes. _He knows who I am and what my cursed blood makes me capable of._

_As he should be_ , a darker voice whispers.

“Forgive me,” Jon mumbles, withdrawing to let Sam regain some space. He checks their surroundings to make sure no one’s eavesdropping on them. “You can’t say such things in an open hallway,” Jon exhorts.

“I should be saying it to you in a throne room,” Sam says with a bitter voice. “But it’s currently occupied by a woman who burns her prisoners of war alive.”

Jon shoves them into a nearby cove and says, “I’m so sorry about your family, Sam, I am. But you can’t ask me to lose mine for it. Nothing I do could bring them back, but everything I do keeps my family alive.”

“I’m not asking for such a thing,” Sam says and looks as if Jon accused him of having kicked a puppy, “Your family is my family, Jon, we’re brothers. Always. But you have a responsibility that goes beyond the North, and you used to know that …”

The man who woke up on a table, raised from the dead, is not the one who’s been stabbed by his own brothers for acting on behalf of the greater good. The man who woke up on a table, raised from the dead, is a selfish creature and barely more than a breathing corpse, driven by instincts and lose morals.

“I’m not the man you knew, Sam,” Jon says, convinced that Sam must have noticed already. “I was brought back, yes, but something … something got twisted. I can’t be the man you need me to be, not anymore.” He regards his friend for a long moment, hoping he’ll understand. In all the clever books Sam’s been reading, he must have come across something similar. Unfortunately, Sam’s eyes never fill with understanding, disappointment is all there is. Jon nods bitterly and leaves the cote.

“So, a Stark died but a Targaryen was brought back?” Sam calls after him.

_Winter is coming._

_Fire and Blood._

_Winter is coming._

_Fire and Blood._

_Winter has come._

_What about Fire and Blood?_

_Wouldn’t I reign fire and blood on everyone who’d dare harm my family?_

“Maybe,” Jon says, and thinks back to the men he hanged for killing him, to the boy that was younger than Bran. Olly. He thinks back to the smell of blood covering him after the Battle of the Bastards. He thinks back to Ramsay Bolton’s face against his knuckles and how good it felt to batter the live out of that worthless bastard. Bolton deserved every hit but no one should feel as much satisfaction from almost killing someone as Jon had then.

_Who was Eddard Stark? A monster? No. A good man? Yes._

_What was Rhaegar Targaryen? A monster? Maybe. A good man? No._

_What is Daenerys Targaryen? A monster? Maybe. A good woman? No._

_What am I? A monster? Maybe. A good man? No._

_Solution by exclusion._

“What would Ned Stark say to that?” Sam asks and he’s not being fair. Jon’s been thinking a great amount of time about his foster father, wondering how he could bring Targaryen blood into Winterfell and raise it amongst his own.

“I don’t know what Lord Stark thought about it for he never shared as much with me. I suppose he’d appreciate the man who’ll make sure his children survive.” But maybe Eddard Stark is looking down at him and regrets not leaving him in Dorne to die.

“You’re a fool, Jon,” Sam says, “if you truly believe that Daenerys and Sansa can live in the same world. I know what you’re trying to do but she hasn’t married you yet and who knows whether she will once she leaves the North and realizes there’s no point in settling for a man who is a no one in a country that already bowed when there are plenty more Southern lords who’ll need convincing to join her cause. No offence.”

With so few words, Sam manages to sum up all the fears, Jon’s been trying to ban from poisoning his mind. He wants to pick the words from his memory and stuff them back where they came from.

“She loves me,” Jon says, and it has to be true or else everything has been for vain. Himself is the last thing he has to give, “and her dragons will do the convincing.”

“Her dragons will do the … do you even realize what you’re saying?” Sam squeaks, searching Jon’s eyes for … something. With a clenched jaw, Jon looks away.

“What happens when she finds out you don’t reciprocate?” Sam says and Jon hates him for seeing through him, fearing others will, too. 

_Say you do, Jon. Just say the words and he’ll shut up._

He can feel the words on his tongue but they taste like ash and smoke, so instead he settles for a choked, “Who says I don’t?”

“If I thought for a second that you love her despite knowing what she is, I’d never talk to you again.” Sam looks at him with a pity he doesn’t want. When Jon feels a pressure on his hand and looks down to see its origin he realizes that Sam is holding it. It’s meant as a kind gesture but it fills Jon with sorrow.

Jon blinks and they are back at Castle Black where they were nothing more than their fathers’ failures. Two green boys with a set life and their greatest issue a bullying instructor. The Others were still an old wives’ tale and Jon’s only responsibility was to annoy his new brothers with his castle-grown fighting skills.

“Sansa,” Sam says and Jon’s eyes widen in affliction. He can’t think that …? “Let’s go to her, shall we?” It takes Jon a moment to stabilise his furiously beating heart, before he manages a poor performance of a nod and continues to lead the way.

When they step outside and the cold winter night cuts into their faces, Jon loses his constraint and asks in what is supposed to be a conversational voice, “What do you need her for?”

“Don’t worry,” Sam replies, and Jon wonders why Sam would think him to be worried. Jon does worry, yes, shit, he always worries but there’s no rationality behind it. “I just wanted to show her something. She seemed a bit upset … in the crypt. Maybe if I showed her Maynard’s journal …”

_No!_

“I’m not sure that’s what she was upset about,” Jon says, slowly. He doesn’t want Sam to show her the book and have her read it with her own eyes. He wants her to forget and never speak of it again. He wants to forget and never think of it again. He’s still surprised Sansa hasn’t thrown him and his Targaryen parentage out of Winterfell yet.

“Well, what do you think upset her then?” Sam asks, and he looks up at Jon with an innocent smile but there’s something shrewd beneath it. Jon opens his mouth but his brain hasn’t prepared a reply for he has no better explanation to offer.

It made Jon happy to hear she’d been waiting for him but for some reason she’d regretted telling him. She’d fled him just like he has Daenerys a few minutes ago. Jon did it to stop the Dragon Queen’s physical advances but Sansa …?

Somewhere, as if behind a curtain, he hears Sansa call their names and he turns around but his eyes don’t focus properly on the scenery before him. All he sees is the red of her hair gleaming against the light of the torches and Sam’s shadow walking past him but he can barely take note of his surroundings, too absorbed in his own thoughts because _suddenly it all makes sense_.

After Sansa’s told him, she must have seen something in his eyes, in his behaviour, something twisted, that reminded her of who he is, a Targaryen, and what Targaryen men do to their sisters. The thought is making Jon sick but that’s it, isn’t it?

For a moment, Jon wonders whether it’ll be necessary to lean over the railing and empty his stomach. Once, he’s certain that he can keep his dinner down, his eyes go back into focus. Ghost is nudging his upper leg for a caress but Jon doesn’t move to touch him. Ghost is Sansa’s now and Jon has no business touching either of them any longer, for a wolf and a dragon can never be with each other.

Sansa, who is talking to Sam, has a soft smile on her lips as she’s listening to his friend’s chatting. He misses things like this, the times of careless chatting. Not that he was ever any good at small talk but some things are only ever appreciated once they are gone. When her eyes lift and meet Jon’s, his heart drops dead.

_Calm down, Jon, it’s not like that anymore._

Before he left for Dragonstone, when her mere existence took him so off-guard that certain unwelcome thoughts drilled themselves into his consciousness, dark needs would arise by the sight of her but he left all that behind.

So why is it still so hard to look at her without getting affected?

His eyes drop under her gaze and he concentrates on her leather-boned bodice instead. She hasn’t worn armour before he told her about his parents. So, was this for him? To bar him and his improper gazes out? The thought fills him with even more shame than his mere existence does.

“Lord Jon,” he hears someone say and judging by the tone, he supposes not for the first time. His eyes leave Sansa’s dress and he meets the gazes of both Sansa and Sam and while her cheeks are reddened, Sam bestows him with a pitiful smile. He doesn’t know what for until he realizes he’s been staring at her chest since he stepped outside.

_Great._ Jon looks at the floor, hoping it may open beneath him.

“Lord Jon,” Lord Royce repeats once more, and Jon takes several steps forward, to hear him better. Oddly enough, everyone is treating him with reasonable respect – something he’s doubted after the first meeting in the Great Hall. “I’m grateful to report that all entries to the crypts are sealed. It will take some time to reopen them but at least we can all rest assured that the Others won’t be able to breach them.”

Jon nods. This is excellent news for the crypts with all their secret passageways and thousands of corpses buried within pose the greatest security flaw but he wonders why the older man bothers telling him. Lord Royce never seemed too fond of Jon before but ever since his return the other man constantly fusses around Jon and reports him of every single thing he did that day and is planning to do still.

After all, who is Jon to be informed of such matters? Warden of the North? What does that even mean? It’s nothing but a hollow title he carries because Daenerys likes to subtly remind Jon of the great honour she bestowed him with. What a farce.

Sansa gifts her trusted man from the Vale a grateful smile to which he responds with a respectful but affectionate nod before he asks Sam to assist him with adjusting one of the cannons. Jon considers the other cannons pointing through the openings in the wall and can’t discern why this specific one needs correction.

Furthermore, Sam’s an odd choice for a physical task like this but it’s all forgotten when Sansa puts a hand on his and draws him aside.

Jon doesn’t feel good so close and so alone with … _his sister_. There are about a million excuses he could legitimately make but his mouth doesn’t open and his feet refuse to walk away, to carry him to safety.

He left the improper thoughts behind but he still has to constantly battle two forces for control over his impulses and desires, the Targaryen one and the resurrected one. This might be the last time they’d speak to one another if he were to screw it up, it’d be a lasting flavour in her mouth of what Jon is.

“I wasn’t staring at your …,” Jon tries to explain himself. _Bosom_ , his brain provides but he can’t bring his lips to form the word, so instead he indicates towards her chest with a loosely waving hand – which is probably not the smoothest move, either. “Before. I really wasn’t.”

Her eyes widen in surprise and her mouth forms a little “o” as she realizes what he’s stammering about.

“I know,” she says quickly and it’s impossible for her cheeks to turn any redder. “I wouldn’t have thought so. You wouldn’t …” At least, she’s unable to say the words too but then he remembers that Sansa is a lady while his only excuse is being a dumb knob. 

Jon wonders whether Rhaegar had a way with women – beyond just being the Crown Prince – for if he did, the Gods granted Jon none of his sire’s prowess.

_She is your sister, you deviant_ , he thinks, _there’s no reason to have any way with her at all._

“I wanted to give you something,” she says to his surprise and pulls a piece of cloth from underneath her cloak. “Return it to me once everything’s over.”

Sansa presents him a fancy handkerchief, consisting of a blue base made of silk with white lace trimming and in its centre, is the stitchery of a fish and a wolf, with their jaws almost touching.

“Why?” he asks, able to hear his own dumbness.

“It’s for good luck,” Sansa explains acquiescently, her lips moulding into a soft smile. Jon wants to … _no_. “It’s from mother – the only thing I have from her. What the Ironborn didn’t take, the Boltons destroyed. I found this behind a cupboard of the Lord’s chamber – it must have slipped there when she was still …”

_Oh, Sansa._

He wants to take her hand to comfort her in her sorrow but doesn’t dare to, so instead he concentrates on the handkerchief. How can he take it? Caitlyn Stark wouldn’t want him to touch it.

Sansa’s eyes widen in realization, and she says, “I didn’t think … I’m so sorry. It’s the only thing I have of value. I understand if you don’t want it but if she knew who you are and what you did for me …”

_Caitlyn Stark wouldn’t want you to touch her daughter either, and yet you’ve touched her plenty, haven’t you, Jon?_

Sansa’s about to withdraw her hand when he stops her. His finger brush over her glove before he takes the handkerchief and tucks it beneath his jerkin to rest above his heart. When he looks at Sansa again, she stares at the spot the cloth just disappeared to. Jon thought that this is what he’s supposed to do with a Lady’s favour. Most certainly, it’s what the heroes in the songs she loves so much would do.

“Did I do it wrong?” Jon asks and worries he either misunderstood her completely or having the handkerchief rest by his heart is more intimate than she intended it to be.

“No,” Sansa says hastily, patting her hand against his chest, as if to make sure her favour remains were Jon put it. His heart flutters with every connection. “No, I’m sorry, I was just …” She lets the sentence fizzle out before she finishes it.

Remembering why he came in the first place, Jon draws out a dragonglass dagger and the sheath that comes with it. Sansa gapes at the weapon in his hands while he offers it to her, hilt first. She shakes her head in refusal, and says, “There will be guards, Jon, and I have Ghost.”

Jon regards his wolf and while Ghost is a good boy there’s only so much he can do, especially against the kind of threat Jon has in mind.

“Please, Sansa,” Jon says, and he’s afraid to sound too needy but he can’t pretend that he isn’t. He needs her to live. “I’d feel better if you take it.”

Sansa reaches for the weapon but leaves the sheath in his hand. She looks from the dagger up to him, and seems a little lost.

“I don’t know where it goes,” she says hesitantly. Before he can stop himself, his eyes drop down to her mid that is guarded by her cloak and a lot of cloth and yet, blood shots in his ears at the thought of touching her there.

_Don’t do it, Jon._

Jon doesn’t want to put it around her, he really doesn’t. There’s a proper amount of distance between them now and he doesn’t want to take any chances. If his hand were to linger too long or slip, it might be the last memory she’d have of him.

She seems to take note of his reluctance for she turns to Lord Royce who’s still busy with Sam and the cannon, and opens her mouth to call for his assistance.

“Aye, I’ll help you,” Jon says quickly but it comes out as such a grumble, he can’t possibly tell whether she understood him but at least she seems to realize that he’s going to help her for she turns back to him without saying anything to her trusted Lord of Runestone. Jon really doesn’t want to touch her but less he wants Lord Royce to touch her there.

Any brother would be bothered by that.

Jon takes a deep breath, before he steps closer to her, into her personal space, and pulls the belt around her, in the delve just above her hips, underneath her cloak. He closes the buckle but halts when he notices that her torso isn’t moving. She’s not breathing.

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking up to Sansa.

_My sister_ , he thinks silently. _Always just my sister._

Her eyes aren’t directed at him but she nods and resumes to breathe, so he finishes the knot. When he’s done he takes her in.

_Gods._

Before Jon realizes what he’s doing he’s drawn her in and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, much like the one he gave her not far from this spot.

_This is wrong_ , Jon thinks but can’t find it in himself to be too angry at himself for he’s much likely going to die tonight and he can’t without feeling her skin under his lips one last time. Sansa tastes like snow and hope and everything he fears.

Jon releases her only to be pulled back and suddenly her smell is everywhere, in his nose, in his mind, in his heart.

_This is too much_ , Jon thinks but then realizes it wasn’t him who initiated the hug, so he might as well indulge. His arms sneak around her torso, pulling her closer until there’s nothing separating them but convention. How could the gods make them siblings through circumstance when they fit so well into the moulds of each other’s bodies? The moulds of each other’s lives?

The aggressive clearing of a throat brings Jon back to reality. He doesn’t need to check to know the creator of the disturbance to be Lord Royce. He doesn’t need to check to feel the Vale man’s death glare on him, either.

“Who’s guarding the Great Hall, Sansa?” Jon asks, his hands still clinging to the sides of her torso. Her dress is made of thick fabric and he wears leather gloves and yet, her heat is warming his fingers.

_Not proper, Jon_ , he chastises himself, _your grandfather burned hers. Take your unworthy Targaryen fingers off her._

_But wasn’t Rickard Stark my grandfather too?_

Jon releases her anyways.

For a moment, Sansa looks down, almost as if the lack of contact bothers her when really, she’s glad and just doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. Her breathing is more regular, too, now that she’s free of the stress his touch induced.

“Northmen,” Sansa says, “we talked about this in the strategy meeting, remember?” Of course he remembers.

“It’s what we agreed on, aye,” Jon says, “but is it what happened? Only Northmen, no Dothraki or Unsullied? Not a single one?”

“Yes,” she says but he can see that he confuses her. “Only Northmen.”

“Good,” Jon says. “You do not allow anyone in, do you understand me? Once the door is closed and sealed you’ll open for no one. Not during, not after. You leave the door shut until I come and tell you it’s safe to come out. If it’s not me, it’ll be Tormund or Edd or someone else you know is with me.”

“It’ll be you,” she says confidently but her eyes betray her pretence. It likely won’t be him and they both know it. He has it a long while coming, he has the body of a living human but inside he’s more corpse than man. If he dies tonight, Sansa would bury him in the crypts, he knows it. But it’s no place for him, not with the blood that is cursing his veins.

“What is wrong, Jon?” Sansa asks. “Why are you so worried about the Dragon Queen’s men?”

He wonders if he should tell her. Would she be safer if she knew? Jon doesn’t have an answer to that but what could be wrong with her realizing the actual threat she’s under.

“Because killing you during the battle would be the cleanest way to get rid of you,” Jon says quietly. The impact of his own words freezes him. Jon is the one responsible for bringing home such a danger when he was meant to bring salvation.

Sansa seems at a loss for words but then she asks with a husky voice, “How do you love a woman who’d kill your sister?”

The numbness at the guilt of her accusation drives his mind to focus on the one thing he can bear to dwell on without having a mental breakdown.

“You’re _not_ my sister,” he blurts out as if she’d offended him as if this was the thing of matter from her question. Her fingers detach from his and she takes a step back.

_You dumb idiot, Jon._

“Forgive me, Sansa,” Jon says quickly, taking a step forward to make up for her retreat. “You _are_ my sister, of course.” The word burns the inside of his cheeks but he doesn’t want to know why. “you mean everything to me.” Jon wants to bring her back into his arms until Sansa knows he’s serious and then he wants to push her over …

_Stop it_ , Jon reprimands himself. _It’s over. You don’t feel that way, anymore._

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek and Jon wonders what she wants to say but doesn’t because it could be the last time they see each other.

“I’d kill her before I let her hurt my family,” Jon says and it catches Sansa’s attention. He can tell that her eyes are scanning over his face, looking for the lie, waiting for his face to break into a laugh, revealing he’s merely mocking her.

“She’s your family, too,” Sansa says and it’s not annoyed but soft. She wants to believe this, she wants to have this hope.

“Not like you are,” Jon replies without hesitation. He often ends up saying dumb shit but this time he can’t explain her agonized expression. But there is no time now for he has still a last matter weighing down his heart.

If he lives he’ll protect her by doing everything he needs to keep Daenerys in line and favour of the North. He’s been slipping lately in convincing her because pretending to love and worship her in Winterfell proves much harder than having done so on Dragonstone. Once they’ll be South and away from … his siblings it will get easier again. Also, he has hopes that being queen will ease her temper into a much more predictable state. But even if not, the moulds of her body and the warmth of her folds have brought him a long way before. If he lives he can do it, he knows. If he doesn’t though …

“Sansa, if I fall, I need you to promise me to kneel to her. Once you do, she _will_ let you be Lady of Winterfell and then she’ll take her dragons and her men and she’ll head for King’s Landing where she’ll either die or ascent that throne of hers. The North will soon be forgotten in her mind, she’ll have her hands full with dealing with Southern issues and you will get to live a happy life here. Promise me.” The more Jon speaks, the more her face falls. He’s disappointed her.

“No,” Sansa says with conviction and she reminds him a lot of the girl who came for him at Castle Black and insisted he fight alongside her. There’s this gleam in her eyes … Seven Hells, he’d die just to keep the fire there. “I don’t serve tyrants, anymore. I don’t care how pretty they are or how much you love them …”

He can’t die and have Sansa think he loved this woman. This woman he wouldn’t put above murdering his sister for disobedience. However, if he is to die, Sansa might be more willing to submit to Daenerys if she thinks this love was real for him, too, to honour his memory or some shit.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Jon says.

“I know you think you owe father to protect me but I don’t need your protection. The North does!”

“I’m not protecting you because of that. I’m protecting you because I love you.” Jon says. “You and Arya and Bran. If you trust me at all, you _will_ kneel. This is how we safe the North. Sansa, she has two dragons and two armies. You don’t protect the North by dying.”

Her cool blue eyes assess him for a long while. Finally, she asks, and it’s barely above a whisper, “What if you live?”

In the end, Sam is right. If Jon lives, he’ll not be able to keep Sansa from revolting against Daenerys. His death might be the only thing guilt tripping her into obedience.

“Then we’ll never bow again,” Jon says and realizes he means it. If Jon _were_ to live he’d wager with Daenerys. Six kingdoms for one seems like a square deal.

Sansa beams at him then, and it lights her whole face up. Jon can’t remember the last time she smiled like this but he wants to see it every day and he wants to be the one to put it on her lips. “Alright, I promise then.”

“You do?” Jon asks. It’s what he’s been hoping to hear but now that Sansa actually said it, it seems too easy.

“You’ll live,” she says matter-of-factly, “you’re too stubborn to die before you’ve killed the Night King.”

Jon can’t help but chuckle at her comment. Sansa smiles at him and for it alone he wants to live. Maybe …

“Sansa?” It’s Sam. Jon allows his eyes to linger on Sansa’s form a moment longer before he tears them away. He eyes the cannon skeptically, not seeing a change in its position. “I hate to interrupt but Lord Royce thinks there might not be much time left. We don’t have to …”

“Just a moment,” she says to Sam but her attention remains on Jon. So, this is it. This is farewell. Jon wants to memorize her face but there’s no line that isn’t already etched on his heart. “See you later? I’ll be making rounds,” Sansa says, her voice softer than a blanket and it's like she's trying to avoid saying goodbye. During the strategy meeting Jon failed to talk her out of walking the battlements before a breach but at least they agreed that she wouldn't go anywhere without Lord Royce and Ghost.

“Aye. I’ll be the one on the dragon,” Jon says, not wanting to say goodbye, either. As Sansa leaves at his best friend’s side, Jon’s eyes follow her, one last time.

**End of the chapter.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuh, look who made it through! :D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I'd love for you to share your thoughts with me! xx


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